The first switch I turned off was the family phone plan. I watched the toggle slide from green to gray, and somewhere across Baltimore, five devices began their slow march toward disconnection. Then I kept going, methodically, without anger, the way I had done everything for this family for ten years. The streaming subscriptions. The internet at a house I did not live in. Kaylee’s coding club. Each one a small gray switch, each one a comfort they believed was permanent because they had never once wondered whose name held it up. By the time my tea had gone lukewarm, the easy things were done, and only the large ones remained, the ones that would take phone calls and letters and morning appointments.

I did not touch those in a rage at midnight. I am too careful for that. Instead, I finished my tea, slept better than I had in years, and at nine the next morning I began making the calls in order. The auto lease, where I was listed as primary and Roxanne as merely an authorized driver. The health insurance, where my mother rode as a dependent on my company plan. The personal loan on my parents’ rowhouse, the four-figure payment that had been leaving my account before I ever saw my own paycheck. One by one, I did not cancel them out of cruelty. I simply removed my name, my signature, my liability, and let each obligation fall back to the person who actually owned it. And that was when the phone calls changed from insults to panic.