For twenty-four straight months, I sent my mother $1,500.
First of the month. Every month. Like a bill I owed for being her daughter.
My banking app would flash the confirmation, and I’d feel that familiar knot of guilt and duty tighten in my stomach.
She always used the same script.
Debt. Creditors. Panic in her voice.
And one final line that always worked:
“You’re my reliable one.”
I never questioned her.
I told myself loyalty meant obedience.
I swallowed the doubt and watched my savings bleed out anyway.
Then my brother called.
And everything changed.
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