For three years, I sent my parents $550 every week so they could “live comfortably,” even while my husband and I struggled to afford rent, groceries, and doctor visits for our daughter, Lily. I thought I was doing the right thing—until Lily’s fifth birthday, when my parents promised they’d come…and never showed.
When I finally reached my dad, he casually admitted they’d flown to visit my brother instead. Then he said the words that broke something in me:
“We don’t count your family the same.”
That night, shaking with anger and clarity, I canceled every payment—the weekly transfer, the car loan in my name, their phone lines, even the emergency credit card. Forty minutes later, my mother called screaming. I didn’t back down.
Over the next weeks, they escalated—harassing calls, showing up at my door, even trying to pick up Lily from school. Eventually they filed for bankruptcy and tried to dump their problems on my brother, who finally saw the truth of how they’d treated me.
With therapy, time, and distance, I built a healthier life.
My parents are gone from it for good.
This year, Lily had her sixth birthday in our new backyard, surrounded by people who actually show up. And for the first time, I don’t feel guilty.
I just feel free.