My dad told me to leave on my eighteenth birthday and the stranger in a suit who found me behind a restaurant one week later

My dad told me to leave on my eighteenth birthday and the stranger in a suit who found me behind a restaurant one week later
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake, no card, no “happy birthday.” Just my dad at the kitchen table, his wife stirring her coffee, my stepbrother grinning like he’d already seen the ending.
“Sit down, Nathan,” my dad said.
I knew that tone. It was the one that usually meant I’d done something wrong just by existing.
“You’re eighteen today. You’re an adult now,” he said. “Which means we’re no longer responsible for you. It’s time for you to move out.”
Just like that. No warning. No plan. No “how can we help?”
I laughed at first because it felt like a bad joke.
“I’ve got three months left of high school,” I said. “Where am I supposed to go?”
He shrugged. “You’ll figure it out.”
My stepmom added, all sweet and calm, “We’ve already packed your things. They’re by the door. This will be good for you, Nathan. You keep saying you want independence.”
What she didn’t say out loud was what I saw in her eyes: she was relieved. One less person at the table. One less reminder of the life my dad had before her.
Then came the part that really hit.
“My savings,” I said. “The money I’ve been working for. Where is it?”