By the time dinner was ready, I was tired. Not physically; not that tired. It was the kind of tiredness you get when you realize you’ve let yourself be used for too long. And the people who do it don’t even notice. Or maybe they do. Maybe that’s the worst part.
We all sat down. I hadn’t even had a chance to sit down when Carter slid my plate across the table. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t say anything at first. He just pushed it away, as if I were a helper. Then he said, « Mommy says you’re supposed to serve, not eat. »
The silence that followed lasted half a second, but it was like a blow. Then everyone burst out laughing, as if it were the best joke they’d ever heard. Lauren leaned back and started clapping. Mommy almost choked on her wine. Uncle Ray was laughing with his mouth full. I looked around the table. No one was uncomfortable. No one was even faking it. Everyone found it hilarious.
I got up, went to the kitchen, grabbed my coat from the chair, and walked out the front door. No one followed me. No one called out. No one even stopped laughing.
It was freezing cold outside, but I didn’t feel it. I got in the car and sat with the heat off, just thinking. I wasn’t angry, just tired of pretending I wasn’t. I thought about money. $700 a month, every month, straight into my mom’s account, for Carter’s private school. The excuse was always, « Just until Lauren gets back on her feet. » It started two years ago. I’d never seen Lauren apply for a second job. I’d never seen her go without her nails or her weekly hair appointment.
That night, after I got home, I finally turned on my phone. Around 11:00, my mom texted: « Stay away if you’re going to behave like this. » No question, no worries—just a warning, as if I were a problem that needed to be fixed.
I replied, « Sure. The payment will disappear too. »
First… nothing. Then the calls started, one after another: to Mom, to Lauren, even to my landline. At midnight, texts arrived every few minutes. « What the hell is wrong with you? » « Are you really cutting the baby! » « You’re heartless! » « It’s just a baby! » « You’ve embarrassed us! »
I didn’t respond. I turned off my phone and left it charging in the kitchen and went to bed. I didn’t cry. I didn’t dwell on it. I just lay there and stared at the ceiling. It took one sentence from my child for me to finally understand what I’d been ignoring for years. He hadn’t come up with the idea himself. It was Lauren’s voice. It was Mom’s approval. I was teaching them how to treat me by never saying « no. » But this time, I said « no. » And for the first time, I said it honestly.
The next morning started like any other, except my phone looked like it had barely survived a war. Thirteen missed calls, seven voicemails, over 25 text messages—and that was just from Lauren. Mom sent eight more. Uncle Ray chimed in too, asking me to « not bring up the past, » as if treating me like a footstool at the Thanksgiving table were a minor misunderstanding.
I didn’t even bother reading everything. I skimmed through it. Lauren called me heartless in three different ways. Mom accused me of letting money make me indifferent. There was something about Carter crying (yes, right) and how disappointed they were. They kept saying « family » as if I’d just slipped away.
I went to work as usual. I didn’t tell anyone what had happened. I just answered emails, took a few calls, and sat with my head down. But inside, I was seething, as if something had changed. For the first time, I didn’t feel guilty. I felt free. Still angry, still a little dazed, but without guilt. That surprised me.
Around noon, I got a text from the bank. There had been an attempt to log into the savings account I’d set up for Carter’s school expenses. I’d closed it the night before. I hadn’t informed him. I thought my text message was pretty obvious, but they must have thought I was bluffing. The notification about the account being closed confirmed what I already knew: Lauren was panicking.
Then, right after lunch, I got a call from an unknown number. I let it go to voicemail. It was the principal of Carter’s school, politely asking me to confirm if the upcoming tuition payment was still scheduled. I called back and said, « No. » That was all I said.
Two hours later, I got a text from Lauren’s ex-husband, Jared. We hadn’t spoken in a while. I’d only helped him once, when he needed documentation to prove he was paying child support. That was during one of Lauren’s more chaotic times. So I was surprised by his message. He wasted no time. « Lauren’s telling people you’re sabotaging Carter because you’re jealous. She said you ‘can’t stand not being the center of attention.’ It’s a downward spiral. »
I thanked him and hung up. I wasn’t surprised. That was always Lauren’s favorite trick. Stretching hi
I’m afraid she’ll be the victim. It works on my mom. It used to work on me too.
That evening, the doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole and saw my mom standing in her coat, holding a plastic bag—probably leftovers, probably something like an olive branch. I didn’t answer the door. She knocked four times. I watched as she tried to peer through the side window. Then she called me twice and left one voicemail. I deleted it without listening. Ten minutes later, she slowly left, as if expecting me to stop her at the last minute. I didn’t.
