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

Every word about how pathetic I am, how embarrassed you are to live with me, how Heather is your real achievement, while I’m just the ATM funding your comfortable retirement. Heather’s gasp was audible. Dad, what is she talking about? My father recovered quickly, his expression shifting to defensive indignation.

You were eavesdropping on a private conversation? I came home early to share good news about a client presentation. You were broadcasting your conversation through the whole house, because you can’t operate video call software properly. You clearly misunderstood.

My mother interjected, reaching for my hand. I pulled away before she could touch me. Whatever you think you heard.

I heard you too, mom. Joining in about how cold I am, how focused on money and status. How you’re tired of walking on eggshells around me and pretending to be interested in my work stories.

How the expensive Christmas watches I bought you were tasteless. How you’re both just playing the game until you can afford to move near Heather. My mother’s mouth opened and closed, no words emerging.

Beside her, my father switched tactics. Everyone vents sometimes, Audrey. You’re taking things out of context.

Of course we appreciate everything you do for us. Do you? I reached into my bag and pulled out a folder I’d prepared for this moment, though I hadn’t been sure it would come. Let me show you what everything looks like.

I opened the folder and removed a spreadsheet, sliding it across the coffee table toward them. This is a complete accounting of what I’ve spent supporting you both for the past three years. Mortgage payments, $104,400.

Utilities, $14,236. Groceries and household expenses, $28,500. Car insurance, cell phone bills, medical expenses not covered by Medicare, $22,375.

Home repairs and improvements, $31,900. I turned to a second page, plus the loans that were never repaid. Dad’s new truck after the bankruptcy, $42,000.

Mom’s cosmetic dental work, $8,400. The Florida vacation last winter, $6,700. Heather’s children’s private school application fees that you insisted on covering, $3,600.

Heather’s head snapped up. What? They told me you offered to pay those. I did, after they pressured me.

Just like I’ve been secretly funding your children’s college accounts for the past five years. $500 a month, automatically transferred. That’s $30,000 they haven’t bothered to tell you about.

The look of shock on her face confirmed what I’d suspected. Our parents had taken credit for my financial contributions to her children’s future, just as they’d taken credit for my success when it suited them. You’ve been supporting us.

Yes, my father acknowledged grudgingly. But that’s what family does. We raised you, put you through college.

My scholarships and student loans put me through college, I corrected. Which I paid off myself. As for raising me, let’s talk about that.

I turned to Heather. Did you know Dad missed my high school graduation because Kelsey had a dance recital the same day? Heather frowned. That’s not how they explained it to me.

They said you told them not to come because you were embarrassed about Dad’s bankruptcy. Of course that’s what they told you. I shook my head, years of collected slights and dismissals suddenly crystallizing into a clear pattern.

They’ve been playing us against each other our whole lives, making you the golden child and me the responsible one, ensuring we never compared notes. My mother stood abruptly. This is ridiculous.

We’ve always loved both our daughters equally. Really? Then why did you tell Stanley that Heather is Dad’s real achievement while I’m just a pathetic workaholic? Why did you spend more on Heather’s prom dress than you did on my entire college dorm setup? Why have you attended every single one of her children’s birthday parties but forgot mine for three years running? The silence that followed was deafening. My father stared at the financial spreadsheet, seemingly unable to dispute the concrete evidence of my support.

My mother had given up on tears and was now looking at me with something close to hatred. Her mask of maternal concern completely dropped. I don’t expect answers, I continued, gathering the papers and returning them to my bag.

I don’t even want them anymore. What I want is for you to understand exactly why I’m leaving. It’s not about the money.

It’s about the decades of emotional manipulation and favoritism. It’s about discovering that the people I’ve sacrificed everything for see me as nothing but a convenient resource. I turned to Heather, whose expression had shifted from confusion to dawning comprehension.

I don’t blame you. You didn’t create the dynamic. They did…