The word that families use when they plan to never fix what they’ve broken.

My mom had added her name to that account when I was nineteen—right after Mia was born. She’d called it protection. “If something happens to you,” she’d said, “I’ll keep it safe for her.”

I believed her because I was young, exhausted, and desperate to trust someone.

Now I realized the truth: she didn’t put her name on that account to protect my daughter.
She put her name there to keep control.

Growing up, money was my mother’s language. It wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t love. It was permission. Power. She decided who got rescued and who got lectured about being strong. My sister Rebecca got endless “second chances.” I got speeches about independence.

And I became exactly what my mother counted on: capable, reliable, silent.