My mom sent a text saying, “Skip my birthday. We need a break from your kid.” I didn’t argue. I simply turned around and took my baby back home. Two weeks later, when they found out we spent Thanksgiving at a private lodge with friends who flew us out, my mom’s first message was, “Why didn’t you tell us you were going there?” I got angry and replied.

Vanessa invited Maisie and me to spend it with her family in California.

I said yes without hesitation.

Three weeks after my message, my dad called.

An actual phone call. Not a text. Not a passive-aggressive group chat message.

I almost didn’t answer.

But something in me—maybe curiosity, maybe the faint hope I hated—made me pick up.

“Jenna,” Dad said quietly. “Can we talk? Just you and me.”

“I’m listening,” I said cautiously.

He exhaled like it hurt. “Your mom and I have been doing a lot of thinking,” he began. “And I talked to Uncle Frank.”

Uncle Frank was a therapist. Thirty years. The quiet kind of man who never took family nonsense seriously.

Dad continued, “I told him what happened. He didn’t hold back. He said we’ve been treating you terribly. Especially since Maisie was born.”

I went still.

Dad’s voice cracked slightly. “He’s right. We did tell you not to come to your mother’s birthday. We didn’t invite you to Thanksgiving. We haven’t been there for you the way we should have been.”

He paused. “And then when we saw you happy somewhere else, our first reaction was to be angry and ask for money.”