At Christmas, My Niece Opened My Gift, Laughed, And Said, “An Ipad Mini? That’s It?” Then Tossed It Back At Me. I Stood Up, Stayed Calm, Gathered Every Present I’d Brought—16 Wrapped Boxes—And Carried Them Back To My Car. Dad Yelled, “Don’t Be Dramatic.” I Replied, “I’m Not—I’m Just Done.”

In my family, that translated to one thing.

Wallet.

It started small.

My parents needed help after my dad retired early. He called it retirement. I called it quitting after he refused to work under a boss who told him no.

Their mortgage wasn’t close to paid off, so I stepped in.

I set up the autopay from my account because Dad didn’t trust online banking.

Every month, the payment went out like clockwork.

At first, my mom said thank you. Then it became normal. Then expected.

Then something they acted like they deserved.

If the payment ever processed a day late because of a holiday, my dad would text, “Mortgage didn’t go through. Fix it.”

No, “Hope you’re okay.”

No, “Thank you.”

Just that.

And it wasn’t just the mortgage.

It was property taxes.

It was the HVAC replacement when it died in July.

“We can’t survive the heat,” my mother said, as if she were talking about a natural disaster instead of the consequences of ignoring maintenance.

It was my mom’s dental implants.

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