On a typical Tuesday evening, I walked into my in-laws’ house to find my children with completely empty plates, while their nieces and nephews were eating their third helping of lasagna from a “real” dinner set. Eighteen minutes later, I quietly decided I’d had enough of being their personal ATM, and that something in this family was about to go wrong in a way no one expected.

I didn’t expect a letter.

It arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, four months after I made those calls. It had a handwritten address, no return label, but I immediately recognized Addison’s neat handwriting.

I held the document for a long time before opening it, unsure whether I wanted to read the justification or the accusation.
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The letter was three pages long, written on regular lined paper, not the expensive paper she usually used for thank-you notes.

Leah’s drug,

No “honey,” no “darling,” just my name.

I’ve started writing this letter seventeen times. Each time, I’ve written something, only to crumple it up because it wasn’t honest enough, or because I was making excuses, or because I was trying to minimize what we were doing. I’ll try again and tell you the truth.

You were absolutely right.

We treated your children badly. We cruelly and deliberately chose Payton’s children over Mia and Evan. We made them feel inferior, and we did it deliberately, convincing ourselves we had good reasons, even though deep down we knew we didn’t.

I told myself it was about blood, biology, and maintaining family traditions. But the truth is simpler and uglier.

I envied you.

You had the education I never had, the career I never pursued, the financial independence I never achieved. You represented everything I gave up or never had the courage to achieve. And instead of being proud of my son for finding someone so successful, I resented you.

Payton was my second chance, my second chance. I put everything I was missing out on in her children when I had my own. And when you showed up with your success, money, and confidence, I saw