Page 12 of Letting Go

I don’t even know why I go. Maybe I’m a masochist. Or maybe I just want to get it over with, the parental performance review I never asked for. Either way, I find myself driving to their house, stomach in knots, brain rehearsing all the ways this could go wrong. Which is rich, because I know exactly how it’ll go.

They won’t scream. They won’t cry. They’ll just disapprove; quietly, pointedly, like it’s an art form. My parents don’t hate me. That would require passion. No, they tolerate me, the way you tolerate an old treadmill in the basement. I’m useful. Or at least I was.

The Keira Era started when I was ten. Baby miracle, the second coming. And I, poor dumb kid, actually believed she was for me. A sister to love. A best friend. What I got was a new sun to orbit around. At first, they tried to keep it fair with matching gifts, equal attention, but it didn’t take long. Eventually, she got the bike. I got told to “be mature.” She blew out mybirthday candles. I was “so big-hearted to share.” They didn’t ask me to babysit, they expected it. Every weekend. Every break. Like her life was my unpaid internship.

It’s why I started working at sixteen. Some kids wanted pocket money. I just wanted out.

So yeah. I’m not expecting hugs and casseroles.

I walk in and Mom barely looks up from her tablet. “Leni? What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you too, Mom,” I deadpan.

Dad walks in from the den, golf polo tucked into shorts like he’s starring in a country club catalogue. “Hey sweetie! What are you doing here?”

Seriously? Do they rehearse this?

“Hi, Dad,” I say, my smile brittle. “Just thought I’d drop by.”

Mom stands, already reaching for her designer tote. “You should’ve called. Your father and I are on our way to the club.”

“Big game today,” Dad says, puffed up like he’s going to war and not sipping chardonnay by a lawn.

They’re halfway to the door when I drop it. “I quit.”

Dad stops cold. “What?”

“I quit my job” I repeat, louder. Like maybe volume will make it more real.

Mom’s lips purse, that practiced blend of concern and condescension. “Honey. Is this about that thing again?” She doesn’t even bother to hide the judgment. “You’re a lawyer. Of course they’re going to work you hard.”

Ah, yes. That thing. Otherwise known as casual misogyny, systemic bullying, and being undermined daily by Leonard the Lizard. I made the mistake of confiding in her once. She responded by recommending I smile more.

Dad chimes in, all puffed-up masculinity. “This isn’t how we raised you, young lady.”

I actually bark out a laugh. “You barely raised me at all.”

I don’t mean to say it out loud. But it slips through my teeth like a secret finally sick of being kept.

The silence is thunderous.

But of course, I backpedal. Because in this house, anger is unseemly and honesty is rude. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, jaw tight. “It’s done. And I just wanted to let you know… I won’t be able to support you financially for a while.”

Mom goes pale, clutching her pearls, literally. “Well, I’m sure you have savings. We’re your parents, Leni.”

And there it is.

Not “Are you okay?” Not “We’re proud of you for walking away.” Just how dare you stop paying for our lifestyle.

I straighten up, spine like steel and fire in my throat. “Wow. Okay. Let me be clear, your daughter has a full-blown breakdown, quits her job after months of being harassed and gaslit, and your first concern is whether I’ll keep bankrolling your bougie brunches and that six-figure club membership?”

Mom opens her mouth, but I cut her off.

“I will no longer be supporting you. In any way. Enjoy the mimosas.”

Then I turn and walk out, before I break. Before the guilt seeps back in. Before I start believing I’m the selfish one.

Because today, I picked me. And damn it, that has to be enough.

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