Jay didn't plan the meeting out of anger.
She planned it out of closure.
The message she sent her parents was brief and clear.
I'll meet you once. After that, please don't contact me again.
They agreed faster than she expected.
The café was quiet, neutral—no memories attached. Jay arrived early, choosing a table near the window. Her hands were steady. That surprised her.
A few months ago, this would've undone her.
Now, it didn't.
Her parents arrived together, looking older than she remembered. Tired. Unsure.
Her mother smiled first. "Jay."
Jay nodded politely. "Sit."
They did.
For a moment, no one spoke. Jay let the silence exist. She wasn't afraid of it anymore.
Her father cleared his throat. "We were relieved when you called."
"I didn't call to reassure you," Jay said calmly. "I called to finish something."
Her mother's smile faltered. "You don't have to be so distant."
Jay met her eyes. "Distance is what I survived."
That landed heavier than shouting ever could.
Her father leaned forward. "We know we made mistakes."
"You made choices," Jay corrected. "And you made them without me."
Her mother sighed. "We thought we knew what was best."
Jay nodded slowly. "That's the problem. You never asked what I wanted."
Silence stretched again.
Her father spoke softly. "We didn't realize how unhappy you were."
Jay's voice stayed even. "I was unhappy because I learned early that my feelings didn't matter."
Her mother's eyes filled. "That's not true."
"It is," Jay said gently. "When you arranged my marriage. When I cried and you told me I'd adjust. When I disappeared into myself and no one noticed."
Her hands rested flat on the table—open, steady.
"I don't hate you," she continued. "But I don't love you the way daughters are expected to either."
That broke something.
Her mother whispered, "We're still your parents."
Jay nodded. "And I'm still your daughter. That doesn't mean you get access to my life."
Her father looked stunned. "So that's it? You're cutting us off?"
"I'm choosing peace," Jay replied. "For the first time."
Her mother reached out instinctively. Jay didn't take her hand.
"I'm safe," Jay said. "I'm loved. I'm respected. And none of that came from you."
Her mother's voice trembled. "Is this because of him?"
Jay allowed herself a small, honest smile. "No. It's because of me."
She stood then, calm and certain.
"I didn't come here to punish you," she said. "I came to tell you I'm done being the version of myself you were comfortable with."
Her father swallowed. "We just wanted you back."
Jay met his eyes. "There is no 'back' for me."
She picked up her bag. "Please don't come to my home again. Don't call. Don't send messages through anyone else."
Her mother whispered, "Jay…"
Jay paused at the door and looked back one last time—not angry, not bitter.
Just free.
"I hope you find peace," she said. "But it won't be through me."
Then she left.
When Jay stepped outside, the air felt lighter.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately.
Keifer: Done?
She smiled.
Jay: Yes.
Keifer: I'm proud of you.
Her chest warmed at that—steady, grounding.
When she got home, Keifer was there, waiting like he always did. He didn't ask questions. He just opened his arms.
Jay went into them without hesitation.
"I didn't break," she said softly.
Keifer kissed her hair. "You stood."
She looked up at him, eyes clear. "I chose myself."
He smiled. "I know."
And in that quiet moment, Jay understood something fully, finally—
Closure wasn't about forgiveness.
It was about no longer needing permission to live the life she had already chosen.
With him.
With herself.