My parents didn’t expect me to go forever when they requested rent for my life’s shelter, the basement. But their ultimatum changed me. I left with nothing and created everything. In the quiet I left, their sorrow is louder than they thought.
I always knew I was different in my family. Black sheep. The afterthought. Not only in my brain, but in every parent choice. This was especially true for me and my younger brother Carter.
My parents relocated us into a suburban two-bedroom home when I was 17. Since space was limited, my parents gave Carter the huge upstairs bedroom to himself instead of sharing it with me.
As for me? I received the unfinished basement.
My “gift” day is still fresh in my mind. My mom smiled like she was revealing a five-star suite.
Delilah, baby, look at all this space! You’ll like it here.”
I tried not to giggle at the bare concrete flooring, exposed pipes, and flickering light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
“Yes, Mom. Super comfy,” I muttered.
Dad slapped my back. This is your place! Make anything you want.”
Spoiler: They never helped me succeed. The “fix it up a bit later” pledge was empty.
But I wouldn’t let it define me.
I worked part-time at the small grocery shop after school. My income was little, but I chose to make that frigid basement a haven.
My only ally was Aunt Monica. I always considered her a second mother. She understood our household, how Carter was my parents’ sun and I was the forgotten moon, circling in quiet.
She came over on Saturday morning with paint cans and masking tape after hearing about my idea.
“Alright, Dilly,” she tied her hair. Turn this dungeon into something beautiful.”
We began low. A soothing sage green wall, thrifted drapes over the window openings, and a fluffy rug to warm the floors. Beanbag chairs, corner lamps, and old bookcases were acquired with every paycheck. My favorite band posters, art prints, and dream vision board were hung. My LED strip lights changed colors remotely. Feeling like mine.
After almost a year of gradual development, the basement seemed homey.
My folks thought it was too pleasant that day.
I heard their footsteps on the stairs while sitting on my bed with LED lights creating a lavender hue. Mom looked calculating at the doorway.
“Well, well,” she murmured, surveying the room. It seems someone has been busy.”
Dad nodded behind her. They didn’t know you had this much money.
I smiled, hoping for a little praise. Maybe “Nice job, honey.”
Instead, Mom crossed arms. “If you can afford to redecorate like this, Delilah, start paying rent.”
I fixated on her. “What?”
You’re nearly 18. Got a job. You should contribute, Dad said.
I blinked. Carter pays no rent.”
Mom said, “Carter’s younger,” as if it made logic. “And he has no income.”
“He also got a brand-new bed, desk, gaming chair, and Xbox for Christmas,” I shakily added.
“Don’t get snippy,” Dad said. “Down here, you pay to live. Story over.”
Although my throat felt thick, I nodded slowly. “How much?”
Their number made me queasy. It wasn’t impossible, but college savings ended. Devastated.
Carter entered my “fancy” room later that day, making matters worse. His eyes brightened up at the LEDs.
“This is sick!” said, reaching up. “Are these strong?”
Do not touch—
Too late. He pulled, and the strip fell, removing a piece of paint.
“CARTER!” A yell.
He chuckled. “Oops.”
Mom rushed in. “Is everything okay?”
“He tore down my lights!”
She scarcely noticed the mess. “Just lights, Delilah. Be less dramatic.”
“Yeah,” Dad patted Carter’s shoulder. “Boys will be boys.”
I didn’t hate the LED strip as I sat in the dark with a tangled mass of lights at my feet that night. This was everything. Unequal treatment, persistent second-place position, and utter rejection. I quickly discovered that karma was watching.
Dinner with Aunt Monica followed a few weeks later. Valerie, her book club mate, joined her. Val was a sharp-eyed, stylish interior designer with a nice smile.
My parents spoke about Carter’s football numbers as I hid under the mashed potatoes at dinner.
Monica dropped the bomb.
See what Delilah did with the basement, Valerie. She designed everything.”
I froze.
Oh, really? Valerie said, beaming. “I want to see it.”
I escorted Valerie downstairs despite my parents’ odd gaze.
She opened her lips as she entered my room. “You did everything yourself?”
Nodding, I felt oddly anxious. “It took time. I worked after school to pay for everything.”
She inspected every area as she moved gently. Dellah, this is amazing. You have an eye for color, arrangement, and lighting.”
Heart skipped. “Thanks.”
“I’m serious,” she said. “I run a small interior design firm. We have a summer internship position. This is often for college students, but talent is talent. Are you curious?
I almost fell. “Yes. Absolutely!”
Of course it’s paid. Design school candidates may get scholarships if they enjoy the field.
I was stunned.
Upstairs, my parents heard the discussion conclude. Silence was louder than screams.
That day altered everything.
I gave my all to the internship. I sponged up design in Valerie’s workshop after school. She showed me how to make mood boards, acquire resources, and pitch customers. She empowered me in tasks.
Still working weekends at the grocery shop, I was saving for my future.
The atmosphere changed at home. My parents stopped collecting rent. Instead, they nervously enquired about my “little internship.”
“How’s the design?” Dad mumbled during supper.
“It’s great,” I responded bluntly. “I’m applying to design schools next month.”
Carter seemed perplexed. “You’re going to decorating school?”
I smiled softly. “Yep. I’m evidently excellent at it.”
Val helped me create a fantastic portfolio. I helped with mood boards at a huge restoration site she brought me to. I felt purposeful.
Valerie’s alma university, a top East Coast design school, was among my five applications. It was my dream.
Mom phoned me one afternoon. Something arrived in the mail for Delilah. Large envelope.”
I ran up the stairs, heart thumping. It included an admission letter and a full scholarship. Screamed.
I got in! I gasped. “Full ride!”
Mom blinked. “Oh. That’s nice.”
She resumed her show. Dad remained silent.
Carter shrugged. “Whatever. I may earn a scholarship.”
I remained silent. It wasn’t necessary. I found closure in their stillness.
Valerie held a studio party for me. Aunt Monica wept. Her pals brought cupcakes. They toasted my future.
In my new dorm room that summer, I put pleasure everywhere. The gentle light, handcrafted throw rug, and Aunt Monica and Valerie photos over my desk.
For the first time, I was dying.
I thrived.
They created genuine customers’ homes after scraping paint off chilly cement walls. Shoveled into a cellar, the girl built her own existence.
And my parents? They achieved what they wanted—I left the basement.
However, they lost something more important: the opportunity to join my future home.
Karma knocked softly. She decorated.
I held the blueprint.