Like Maisie was a bad habit I’d picked up. Like she was noise my mother wanted turned down. Like being a single mom made me—and my daughter—something my family tolerated instead of loved.
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
Then I did the thing I didn’t usually do.
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t call crying.
I didn’t send a long paragraph explaining how hurt I was, how unfair it was, how I’d driven four hours because I still believed in us.
I replied with four words.
Understood. Hope you have a nice birthday.
Then I turned the car around and drove the four hours back home.
The drive was quiet except for Maisie’s occasional soft noises and the sound of my own thoughts pounding louder than the highway.
I kept replaying every moment I’d prioritized them over myself.
Every birthday check.
Every “emergency” transfer.
Every time I’d rearranged my schedule like my life was an accessory to theirs.
Because here’s what you need to understand about me.
I’m Jenna. Twenty-seven. And I’ve been bending over backward for my family my entire life.
When my brother Kyle needed money for his startup that never started, I gave him three thousand dollars. When my sister Brinn wanted help with her wedding, I paid for the flowers and the photographer. When my parents needed their roof fixed last year, guess who quietly transferred five grand without telling anyone at work, without putting it on social media, without asking for praise.
