day earlier, I had been hurt.
Not because I was desperate to spend a week at the beach with people who clearly didn’t want me around.
But because I had spent years believing that helping my family meant something.
I paid for emergencies.
Covered birthdays.
Helped with school expenses.
Paid for repairs.
Sent money when Melissa and Kyle were between jobs.
And when Mom needed something, I was usually the first person she called.
Apparently, none of that made me family.
It made me useful.
So I decided to stop
