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On my wedding day, my mom pressed an old savings book into my palm, and my dad snatched it away, hurled it onto the cold marble in front of 150 guests, and barked, “Garbage belongs with garbage!” like he was talking about her, not paper. I didn’t argue, I didn’t cry, I just walked away—quietly—but I still carried that little book to the bank a week later.
At my dad’s funeral, my brother announced he was selling our family house to cover his $340,000 gambling mess, and my mother nodded like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
My parents invited me to a “special family dinner” for my 30th birthday, then stood up in front of 53 relatives to erase me—while the one woman they’d banished from our family sat in the corner like she’d been waiting for this exact night.