When my parents insisted I start paying rent for the basement I had turned into my sanctuary, they never imagined it would lead to my escape—and ultimately, their regret.
Growing up, I always felt like the black sheep. When we moved into a two-bedroom house, my younger brother, Daniel, got the large, fully furnished room upstairs, while I was sent to the unfinished basement.
His room was bright and full of new furniture; mine was cold, musty, and filled with discarded things from the garage.
Determined to make it livable, I got an after-school job, saved every penny, and, with the help of my Aunt Teresa, transformed the basement into something I could be proud of. We painted the walls, hung curtains, and added lights and rugs. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.
Just as I finished the transformation, my parents came down to inspect. Instead of praise, they told me that if I had money to fix up the basement, I could start paying rent. I was stunned.
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