My mom sent a text saying, “Skip my birthday. We need a break from your kid.” I didn’t argue. I simply turned around and took my baby back home. Two weeks later, when they found out we spent Thanksgiving at a private lodge with friends who flew us out, my mom’s first message was, “Why didn’t you tell us you were going there?” I got angry and replied.

Their messages slowed too, and then stopped entirely when they realized guilt wasn’t working.

Christmas approached, and for the first time ever, I made plans that didn’t include them.

Vanessa invited Maisie and me to spend it with her family in California.

I said yes without hesitation.

Three weeks after my message, my dad called.

An actual phone call. Not a text. Not a passive-aggressive group chat message.

I almost didn’t answer.

But something in me—maybe curiosity, maybe the faint hope I hated—made me pick up.

“Jenna,” Dad said quietly. “Can we talk? Just you and me.”

“I’m listening,” I said cautiously.

He exhaled like it hurt. “Your mom and I have been doing a lot of thinking,” he began. “And I talked to Uncle Frank.”

Uncle Frank was a therapist. Thirty years. The quiet kind of man who never took family nonsense seriously.