My family consisted of just three people. I never knew my father—he disappeared before I was even born. That left just my mother and my older sister, Emily. She was five years older than me, but it always felt like she was the younger one, not me.
My mother spoiled Emily in every possible way. She got the best clothes, the tastiest food, and all the attention, while I was left with hand-me-downs and whatever was left over. Some of my pants had been rolled up and stitched so many times that they barely held together. Birthdays and holidays never meant gifts or celebrations for me. But the worst part wasn’t the lack of material things—it was my mother’s constant sighs, complaining about how much of a burden I was and asking when I would finally “stand on my own two feet” and stop depending on her.
I understood early on that no one was going to help me, so I started working while still in high school. One day, I was unloading crates at the farmer’s market; another day, I was delivering pizza around the city. I barely made enough to buy myself some decent clothes and maybe a snack here and there. But as soon as my mother found out I was earning money, she wasted no time in laying down her expectations: I had to “contribute to the family.”
By “contribute,” she meant I had to take care of both her and Emily. Emily, of course, never even considered working. Why should she? She was used to being taken care of, always assuming that someone—first my mother, then me—would provide for her.
When I finally graduated high school, I knew one thing for sure—I had to get out. There was a technical university in our town, but I deliberately chose one in another city. It wasn’t just about education; it was about escape.
I moved into a dormitory, and for the first time in my life, I could breathe. I kept working—this time as a freight handler at the railway station. The job was tough, but the pay was decent. For the first time ever, I could afford nice clothes. I could go out for coffee without feeling guilty. I had a scholarship on top of that, so I wasn’t struggling financially.
Neither my mother nor Emily ever asked how I was doing. They didn’t care if I was eating, if I had a roof over my head, or if I was surviving in a strange city all alone. But when I returned home after my first year, they immediately noticed one thing—I had money.
From that moment on, their demands became relentless. Every time I visited, they made sure to remind me that they “needed help.” Emily, in particular, was shameless about it. She acted like it was my duty to support her. When I told her to get a job, she just laughed it off—work? That was beneath her.
I pushed through, finished my degree, and got a job. And then, a stroke of luck—my company provided me with a one-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.
That’s when my mother and Emily completely lost it. They refused to believe that the apartment was given to me. They accused me of secretly buying it and hiding money from them. And, of course, their demands for financial support only increased.
Then life took another turn—my grandfather, my mother’s father, passed away.
He was the only one in my family who had ever treated me like a human being. We weren’t extremely close, but we had an understanding. He shared stories from his past, from the war, from his struggles, and he never judged me. In his will, he left his house and land to me.
When my mother and Emily found out, they went into a frenzy.
“How is that fair?!” Emily shrieked. “I have a child! We have nowhere to live!”
By then, she had already married, had a baby, and divorced. I never even got the chance to meet her husband. And now she expected me to sell my inheritance and give her the money so she could buy a new place.
But I had my own plans. And I made them clear.
They exploded with rage, accusing me of selfishness. That’s when I decided to give them an answer they weren’t expecting.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do what you want. But only halfway.”
Emily narrowed her eyes, sensing a trick. “What do you mean, halfway? You’ll give me half the money from the house?”
She was wrong.
“I’ll sell the house, just like you want,” I told them. “But I’ll be using the money to buy a bigger apartment—for myself. Because I’m married now, and my wife is expecting a child.”
They didn’t care. My life, my future, my growing family—none of it mattered to them. They slammed the door in my face and left. And that was the last time we spoke.
I sold the house, just as I had planned, and my wife and I moved into a larger apartment. Now we are raising our first child in peace.
My in-laws treat me like family. They support us, help us with the baby, and actually care about our well-being. Meanwhile, my mother has never met her grandson. And, honestly? I don’t think she even wants to.
And for the first time in my life, I’m okay with that. Because I’m finally free.
