Titus should have felt free.
But freedom, in his world, never arrived cleanly.
It always came with strings.
The kitchen was becoming something he looked forward to without admitting it. Every day he returned, every task he was given, every correction he made—it all felt like pieces of a life he was not supposed to have.
A life that did not demand him to suffer first.
But then his phone rang.
And everything outside that kitchen came rushing back.
It was his mother.
Her voice wasn’t warm.
It never was.
“Titus,” she said immediately, no greeting, no softness. “Where are you?”
“In town,” he replied carefully.
A pause.
Then the tone changed—sharper.
“Why are you in town again? You were told to focus on work at home.”
Titus tightened his grip on the phone.
“I had something to do.”
Another pause.
Then came the real reason for the call.
“You will send money today.”
No question. No discussion. No explanation.
Just demand.
Titus blinked slowly. “I haven’t been paid.”
A sharp exhale on the other end.
“You are strong. You always find a way. Your brother has school needs. Your father has expenses. Do not start behaving like you are alone in this world.”
Titus said nothing.
Because in his home… silence was safer than truth.
But this time, something inside him didn’t settle as easily.
Because for the first time, the word alone didn’t feel like punishment.
It felt like observation.
That evening, after leaving the kitchen, Titus sat outside the hotel for a...