Dad forgot to hang up the call. «She’s nothing! A failure, should’ve never been born…

The first for dad’s knee surgery, which somehow didn’t prevent him from playing golf two weeks later. The second for mom’s car accident, minor, but requiring a replacement vehicle they couldn’t afford. The third for Heather’s unexpected medical bills when insurance wouldn’t cover her youngest daughter’s treatment.

When I finally moved into my house, the crown jewel of my achievements, they’d shown up three weeks later with suitcases and sad stories about their landlord selling their rental property. I’d given them the master bedroom with its in-suit bathroom, moving my things to the smaller guest room to accommodate them. My privacy, my space, my sanctuary, surrendered without a fight because that’s what daughters do.

I’ve defended him so many times, I whispered, recalling conversations with colleagues who’d questioned my father’s business acumen after meeting him at company events. People would ask why he keeps failing, and I’d make excuses. Bad economy.

Dishonest partners. Bad luck. Because you’re loyal, Zoe said firmly.

That’s not a character flaw, Audrey. My phone buzzed with a text from Danielle Parker, my assistant at work. Great job today.

Victoria’s thrilled. Did you go homesick? Let me know if you need anything. I’d completely forgotten about the presentation’s success, the reason I’d gone home early in the first place.

It seemed trivial now, overshadowed by the revelation that had upended my world. My whole identity has been built around being the good daughter, I said, the realization settling heavily on my shoulders. The responsible one.

The successful one. But they never wanted that. They wanted me to be Heather.

Zoe snorted. Heather who can barely keep a job and relies on her husband’s family business to survive? That Heather. They don’t see it that way.

They see her children. Her marriage. The normal life I’ve never had because I’ve been too busy working to support everyone.

As night fell, I found myself scrolling through property laws on my phone, researching homeowner rights. The house was solely in my name. They had no legal claim to it, no right to stay if I asked them to leave.

The thoughts sent a strange mixture of guilt and liberation coursing through me. The next morning, Zoe used her connections to get me an emergency session with her therapist, Dr. Amelia Richardson. What you’re describing is a profound betrayal, Dr. Richardson said after I’d recounted the previous day’s events.

It’s normal to feel disoriented, angry, even grief-stricken. You’re mourning the parents you thought you had. I keep wondering if I should just confront them, scream at them, make them understand how much they’ve hurt me, I admitted.

She leaned forward slightly. Would that give you what you need? I considered the question. No, I finally said.

They deny it or minimize it or turn it around on me somehow. They always do. Then what would give you what you need? The answer came with surprising clarity.

Freedom. I need to be free of them, of the obligation, the guilt, the constant striving for approval I’m never going to get. And how might you achieve that freedom? I didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, I found myself mentally calculating numbers. My savings, the house’s value, the cost of starting over somewhere new. Somewhere without the weight of familial expectations crushing me daily.

By the time I left Dr. Richardson’s office, a plan was forming. Not a confrontation, but an exit strategy. I would not give them the satisfaction of my anger or my tears…