I sent a message that I had never imagined I’d send, trembling fingers typing words that had been building inside me for years: “I’m sorry, but this isn’t working anymore. We need to prioritize our needs and our daughter. I hope you understand.”
The seconds ticked by in a heavy, anxious silence after hitting send. My heart thudded in my chest, a chaotic drumbeat of fear and relief. This wasn’t just a text; it was a declaration of independence, a reassertion of boundaries that had blurred and vanished in the fog of familial duty.
I stared at the phone, half-hoping for an apology, an acknowledgment of wrongs, or at the very least, an understanding. But the only response was another call, then another, each one ringing with urgency that felt less about us and more about the money.
