They laughed. Mocked me for not having a husband or kids. Called me selfish for focusing on my career. My father even added, “She chose this life. She should support ours.”
In that moment, the betrayal cut deeper than anything I’d experienced. But I didn’t confront them. Not yet.
Instead, I smiled. I pretended to go along with it. Then I suggested we meet with a lawyer to finalize the “transfer” of the house. Claire was thrilled. She arrived with her child, expecting a handover.
I handed her a document and said, “This gives you the house and car—just sign this agreement committing to placing Mom and Dad in long-term care. You won’t need to host them at home.”
Without hesitation, she said, “Deal.”
That’s when I opened the adjoining door—and our parents walked in.
The room fell silent. My mom looked stunned. My dad couldn’t speak. Claire turned pale.
I said quietly, “I never planned to give you anything. But now I know exactly what I mean to each of you.”
And then I walked out.
Within days, I changed the locks. I packed their belongings and sent them to Claire. She didn’t take them in.
Now, my parents live in a small apartment outside town. They’ve taken up odd jobs—my mom tutors, my dad works overnight shifts. After two decades without responsibility, they’re learning the weight of independence.
I don’t wish them harm. But I also don’t feel guilt.
For the first time in my life, I sleep through the night. I started hiking, painting, and reading again. I even met someone—Ben. He listens. He encourages. He doesn’t expect me to carry his burdens.
I’m no longer the backup plan.
I’m finally free.