I sat down on his couch. Navy blue. Secondhand. Something he’d bought years ago when he first moved to the city.
I opened the envelope again. The cut insurance card. The note.
Marcus read it over my shoulder.
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then quietly: “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”
I didn’t answer.
I just lay back on the couch.
And for the first time since dinner, I let myself fall asleep.
When I woke up, my phone showed 17 missed calls.
None of them were from my parents.
Sunday morning, 9:00 a.m.
Voicemails from my aunt, Linda Wells.
“Galatia, I don’t know what happened, but your father called me last night around midnight. He said you’re no longer part of the family. Is that true? Please call me.”
Another from my college roommate, Olivia.
“Gal, what the hell happened? Your mom told everyone you left because you couldn’t handle residency. Call me. I’m worried.”
Two more calls from numbers I didn’t recognize.
I didn’t return any of them.
Then I saw the email.
Subject line: Notice of Account Closure.
From Leonard Graves, Graves and Associates, attorneys at law. Sent Sunday morning.
I opened it.
Dear Miss Wells, per the instruction of your parents, Dr. Harold Wells and Mrs. Ruby Wells, we are writing to inform you of the following changes to your financial arrangements effective immediately.
One, trust fund account balance: $520,000 has been frozen pending family review.
Two, joint checking account with Mrs. Wells, balance $4,100, has been closed. Funds have been transferred to Mrs. Wells’s personal account.
Three, all credit cards under the family account have been terminated.
Four, health insurance coverage has been cancelled effective immediately.
This includes, but is not limited to, trust disbursements, insurance access, credit privileges, and any future financial support. Please make alternative arrangements.
Sincerely, Leonard Graves, attorney at law.
I read it once, then again. The third time, slower than I wanted.
After that, I checked my wallet.
$120 in cash.
That was everything I had left.
My residency didn’t start for another two weeks. My first paycheck wouldn’t arrive until mid-July.
I was pregnant, uninsured, homeless, and I had $120.
My phone rang. I almost ignored it.
Then I saw the name.
Dr. Evelyn Carter, program director, pediatric residency. My future boss.
I answered.
“Galatia.”
Her voice was formal. Controlled. Distant.
“I received a call from your father yesterday evening.”
My stomach dropped.
“He raised concerns regarding your current personal circumstances and whether you’ll be able to meet the demands of residency. I want to be clear. Your position remains secure as long as you meet our expectations. But I need to ask you directly. Are you prepared to begin July 1st?”
I didn’t respond right away.
I pictured my father calling her the same night he threw me out, trying to cut me off before I even had a chance to begin.
Dr. Carter had worked with him for years. Published with him. Traveled with him. Our families had shared holidays.
She wasn’t just asking if I was ready.
She was asking: Are you going to be a problem?
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be ready.”
A pause.
“Good. I’ll see you at orientation.”
She hung up.
I sat there still holding my phone.
My father hadn’t just cut me off.
He had already started trying to erase me.
Marcus came home later that afternoon, just after a 12-hour ER shift, still in scrubs. He found me at the kitchen table, laptop open, scrolling through Medicaid eligibility requirements.
He sat down across from me.
“You’re staying here,” he said. “Rent’s covered. I’ve got it.”
I shook my head automatically.
“I can’t let you do that.”
“You’re pregnant,” he said. Steady. Firm. “We’re doing this together. That’s not up for debate.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to say I’d figure it out on my own. But the truth was, I had no idea how.
Marcus made about $210,000 a year. After taxes, after child support, he still brought in around $9,000 a month. His rent was $2,400. He could afford to help me.
The real question was, could I afford to accept it?
I looked at him. This man I had known for eight months, offering me stability. A home. A future.
