Eight other Labradors slept as I made my escape.

My wagging feline tail did its best to stay quiet as I tip-toed upstairs, my backpack stuffed with the remaining belongings from what would be my former room. Or rather, the corner of the furnished basement that Mom and Dad let me call my room. Not anymore. Not after days spent stealthily moving everything I owned out. All that'd be left behind were a fold-out couch, some clothes I didn't need, and a folded letter explaining myself. Plus, a final check for that months' worth of rent. My way of leaving the bridge intact without burning it completely.

My ears fell as I glanced down the basement stairs, then around the kitchen and connected living room. I wanted to feel sadness, maybe even guilt. Instead, I felt immense relief. Nothing could hold me back anymore so long as I left without waking anybody up. So, I went above and beyond to avoid the creaky floorboards and parts of the hallway I knew carried noise like an echo. I meticulously unlocked the front door and then set it to lock again the moment I closed it shut behind me. I wasn't a burglar, but the way I held my apprehensive breath and slipped out to the driveway made me mentally wonder if I'd been one in a previous life. Expertise in freelance programming and illustration certainly didn't translate into ninja-like reflexes.

I sighed halfway to my truck. Then again, given the godless hours spent coding and drawing on my tablet in the middle of the night, how else did I get to be so quiet?

In the low-lit driveway, I passed my brother's expensive corvette. I went to my truck, an old silver Fjord that was used, close to a decade old, yet fully paid off and still reliable. The interior stayed clean as a whistle while the back seats were occupied by a massive quilt, covering the rest of my belongings like an angular cushion.

"Thank God I thought of covering it," I mumbled to myself. Between odd errands and the like, I'd been worried someone would notice. "Well, better get going, Luke..."

It finally hit me as I unlocked the truck. I was moving out. The moment I'd been waiting for was finally close at hand. And neither my parents nor my siblings or their cubs-anybody other than close friends-suspected a thing. If they did, no doubt they'd claim I was being selfish. Dad would say I had a responsibility to raise my nephews while their parents continued job hunting (for three more years). Mom would say I couldn't survive all on my own and probably make an off-handed comment about how my 'little hobbies' couldn't pay the bills.

Not that they would care, save for the fact I would no longer be their live-in housekeeper and provide extra spending cash in the form of rent.

No more though. No more of those late nights getting work done to avoid derisive scoffs, distractions of 'favors' in the form of chores, or being forced to give my equipment to my wild nephews. I would never have to deal with any of that again. I could do my freelance work whenever and wherever I wanted, anytime.

My ears remained fallen as I stared around at the surrounding houses, peering through the darkness at the neighboring homes. They were all dark. I felt like an intruder standing on the street I grew up on, a stranger entering my own truck, placing my backpack in the passenger seat, about to make the long drive to my new home. Far away from here.

More and more realizations dawned on me as I sat in the driver's seat; no more sudden rent hikes, no more being forced to play the roles of live-in housekeeper, babysitter, tech support, no more juggling important video calls with sudden crises, no more spending days off cleaning after everyone in the house, and constant insomnia. Also, no more assisting Mom with redecorations while being passive-aggressively lectured about 'finding a real job'.

I stared one more time at my phone. My thumb hovered over the icon to let me send a text to the family's group chat. As much as I wanted to resent them, I couldn't. I loved my family. I truly did, but they needed to learn that I had my own goals. I'd gotten tired of the guilt trips. I'd gotten tired of being cooped up in their home, all my time consumed by their needs and being denied opportunities because everyone relied on me to pick up the slack. Most of all, I was sick of their attitude towards my profession.

Finally, I pressed the button. I typed out my message to everyone, a soft whine escaping my throat.

I LOVE YOU ALL. GOODBYE.

A strange sensation loosened my tense muscles once my thumb pressed the 'send' button, and the message was confirmed to have been received. It felt less like a weight removed from my shoulders and more akin to bindings being loosened. As if I removed a jacket two sizes too small for my frame. Yet another sense filled my bones though: urgency.

I set my phone aside after setting it on mute. Then, I started the truck. A stalling noise pierced through the calm night. It carried on for a few more seconds than usual-a sharp worry nearly pierced my heart, and I wondered if the truck broke down. However, even more relief filled my veins once the aging truck rumbled to life. Its engines purred beautifully.

I checked my rearview window, only to pause. A light had turned on within the house. The exterior lighting bathed the front yard and driveway in harsh beams. Once again, I wanted to feel regret. Was I making a mistake?

I quelled any remaining doubt, not letting it fester before the front door opened and all Hell broke loose from whoever caught me. Instead, I pushed the stick from 'parked' to 'drive'. My foot stepped on the gas without hesitation, and I peeled onto the road without looking back.

"Stupid, stupid," I muttered. "Should've left before sending it..."

My heart calmed down after traveling several blocks. During which, I dared not glance at my muted phone. My eyes kept focused on the road ahead, on the path towards my next destination.

Mammals that slept in never appreciated the beauty of a city in the late hours of the night. I stared out my windshield at the skyline piercing the comforting black. Some buildings in the distance glowed neon. Others were chalk white. Some darker shades to accommodate for nocturnal mammals, a few of whom I could see frequenting the streets either to bars or twenty-four-hour restaurants and grocery stores. One bat flew off into an alleyway after strapping his shopping bag to a hook on his leg, then flapped his wings to reach a fire escape-no doubt his apartment. I spotted some raccoon teenagers skateboarding in a park without a care in the world. They seemed so happy as everyone slept, when the sun set and the moon appeared in the light-polluted sky.

I know it was strange to think, but I felt a kinship to these night-dwelling mammals. As someone who took advantage of the night, I understood. I couldn't help but imagine myself being a nocturnal species. I'd always felt freer. I never needed to worry about interruptions or obligations. I could breathe easier. Even a few precious hours felt like a vacation that allowed me to code or draw.

Not anymore. No more being held back.

No more working as both housekeeper and peacekeeper.

No more Cinderella.

Sure, it required sacrificing my family's approval, but it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. As I stared out towards the highway leading away from the city, I glanced one more time at my muted phone. I smiled. No, I grinned. My tail wagged behind me as I imagined reaching the empty apartment, my new home.