Because for three years, I had been paying their rent.
Every month. On time. No excuses. No delays.
They didn’t ask for help like adults. They expected it like a salary.
And I paid because that’s what “good mothers” are trained to do: sacrifice until you’re invisible.
So when she said it wasn’t for everyone, something inside me clicked into a clean, cold clarity:
Fine. Then my support isn’t for everyone either.
Keep reading—because seven days later, the phone rang again… and this time it wasn’t an invitation. It was a demand.
