My dad forgot to hang up. I heard every word: «She’s a burden.» I stayed quiet….

We need to have a serious conversation about our retirement, my father said. Emma needs to understand that house is our security for the future. I felt my stomach drop.

They were planning something. She’s been a burden from the start, my father continued, his voice hard and clear. All those years of expenses, college, everything.

Now she has this valuable property just dropped in her lap and what? She thinks she deserves it? What has she ever done? A burden. The word echoed in my head like a gunshot. She’s always been selfish, my mother agreed, but she’s also easily manipulated.

Remember how quickly she agreed to pay for most of this trip? All I had to do was mention family obligation a few times. They laughed together, a synchronized sound I’d heard my whole life, but now seemed sinister. We just need to keep working on her.

My father continued. Eventually, she’ll sign the house over to us or at least add us to the deed. Her weakness is that she still wants our approval.

I couldn’t breathe. My hand was shaking so badly, I nearly dropped the phone. I managed to fumble with my other cell phone and began recording the conversation.

What if she doesn’t agree? My mother asked. She will. My father said confidently.

Emma’s always been desperate for our approval. We just need to make her feel guilty enough. Remind her of all we’ve sacrificed.

If that doesn’t work, we start talking about nursing homes and medical expenses. Trust me, by this time next year, that house will be in our names. And if worst comes to worst, my mother added, we’re living there anyway.

Possession is nine tenths of the law. She’d never evict her own parents. They both laughed again.

I felt physically ill. Speaking of which, my father continued. When we get back, I think we should take the master bedroom.

It’s ridiculous that she has the largest room when she’s hardly ever there because of work. Good idea, my mother replied. We should also talk about that vacation property she’s been looking at.

Complete waste of money. If she has extra cash to spend, she should be helping us more. Exactly.

Why should we struggle while she’s building some real estate empire? She owes us. The conversation continued as they apparently walked to the restaurant, discussing various ways to manipulate me into giving them more money, more control, more of my life. I sat frozen in my chair, tears streaming down my face.

As every illusion I had about my family shattered around me. After about 15 minutes, the connection finally broke. I sat in complete silence.

The phone still clutched in my hand. The house I had worked so hard to maintain, the house my grandmother had entrusted to me, the house I had opened to my parents out of love and obligation. They saw it as nothing more than their entitlement and me.

I was just a burden, a means to an end, someone to be manipulated and used. In that moment, something broke inside me, but something else, something harder, colder, and more determined took its place. I looked around at the home I had shared with them, seeing for the first time all the ways they had gradually asserted ownership.

My father’s recliner positioned in the prime spot in the living room, my mother’s decorative plates replacing my artwork, my own belongings gradually relegated to my area in what was supposedly my own home. I wiped my tears, took a deep breath, and made a decision. If I was such a burden, perhaps it was time to lift that weight from their shoulders.

Permanently. I called in sick to work for the next three days. I couldn’t face clients or colleagues with the storm raging inside me.

Every time I replayed the conversation in my head, and I did, obsessively, I vacillated between crushing heartbreak and cold fury. How could the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally see me as nothing more than a resource to be drained? After the initial shock wore off, my realtor brain kicked in. I needed information, options, and a solid plan.

No emotional decisions. My grandmother hadn’t felt her success by acting rashly, and neither would I. My first call was to Patricia Winters, a family law attorney I had worked with on several property transactions. I explained my situation, careful to stick to the facts.

The house is completely in my name, I concluded. But they’ve been living there for almost four years. Do they have any legal claim to it? Patricia was blunt and efficient, which was exactly what I needed…