We had practically nothing, yet Grandma still took money from her own daughter. Something inside me broke. I went downstairs and showed Grandma the folder.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t look guilty. She just shrugged and said she had given Mom “a roof over her head.”
That was it for me.
The very next morning, I packed my bags and left. I found the smallest apartment I could afford and managed to pay the deposit with the last of my savings. I’m struggling—really struggling—but at least I can breathe.
Sometimes, I think of Grandma, and I feel sad. She’s the only family I have left. But then I remember how much my mom suffered, how much she paid, both financially and emotionally, for a place that never felt like home.
And the sadness turns into anger. I don’t know what to feel anymore. I don’t know what to do.
And I keep asking myself one question:
Did I do the right thing by moving out? Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered.
Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
