Two Years Ago
Hayden Matthews sat on the front steps of his childhood home with everything he owned crammed into the bed of his truck. Eighteen years old, high school diploma barely earned, and nowhere to go.
"You're not welcome here anymore."
His father's words still echoed in his ears from twenty minutes ago. Cold. Final. Delivered with the same matter-of-fact tone he used to critique football plays, a clinical dissection of failure.
The fight had been building for months. Every college rejection letter. Every missed curfew. Every time Hayden showed up late to practice or forgot an assignment. The anger had been eating him alive since his mom left six years ago, and he'd finally let it explode. Told his father exactly what he thought: That his impossible standards had driven her away, that nothing was ever good enough, that maybe if he'd been a better father, their family wouldn't have fallen apart.
His dad had listened in silence. Then calmly told him to pack his things.
Hayden's phone buzzed. His best friend offering a couch for a few weeks. The football coach from the only college that offered him a scholarship confirmed their meeting; Small lifelines in the wreckage.
He should feel something. Anger, fear, grief. But mostly he just felt numb. Hollowed out. Like he'd spent so long trying to earn love that was always conditional, always just out of reach, that he'd forgotten how to want anything else.
Hayden stood, walked to his truck, and drove away without looking back.
In that moment, Hayden made himself a promise: he would never need anyone again. He would build walls so high that no one could hurt him the way his father had. He would be invincible.