I told them I wasn’t attending dinners where I was treated like a wallet with legs. I told them I loved them—and that love doesn’t mean silence. They nodded, slow and uncomfortable.
Change always looks like that at first. Vanessa didn’t speak to me for weeks. When she finally did, it wasn’t an apology.
It was a test. A “Hey sis” and a link to a weekend trip. I didn’t click it.
I didn’t respond. The next time I went out to dinner—with friends who passed plates and pulled chairs closer—I noticed something new. I wasn’t scanning the table for exits.
I wasn’t rehearsing explanations. I ordered what I wanted. I laughed when I meant it.
The screenshots stayed in my notes app. I didn’t post them. I didn’t weaponize them.
Knowing I could was enough. Sometimes people ask if I regret walking out. I don’t.
Because the moment I stood up from that corner seat, I didn’t just leave a restaurant. I left a role. And now, when the bill arrives—at dinner or in life—I decide what’s mine to pay.
Everything else? Not my problem.
