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.”

Or a cousin.

Or Carrie would text something like, “Mom’s really hurt,” as if my boundaries were knives.

I learned early that in my family, “hurt” was a weapon.

We didn’t talk about why something hurt. We talked about who was responsible for the discomfort.

It was always me.

Even when I was a kid.

Carrie was older than me by three years, and she had always been the center of the room.

She was louder. Prettier, by family standards. More dramatic in a way my mother called “spirited.”

When Carrie cried, my mother rushed to fix it.

When I cried, my father told me to stop being dramatic.

I learned to swallow feelings and translate love into usefulness.

I became the “responsible” one because responsibility got approval.

Straight A’s.

College.

Dental school.

A stable job.

A stable life.

And then, when my marriage fell apart and I became a single mother, my family didn’t see the strain. They saw a convenient truth.

Helen can handle it.

Helen always handles it.

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