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.

Dad nodded. “I understand.”

“And money is done,” I added. “No more hints. No more taxes. No more emergencies that somehow land on my lap. If you need help, you ask like an adult, and you accept no like an adult.”

Dad swallowed, then nodded again. “Okay.”

We ate takeout on paper plates because I didn’t have energy for anything else. Dad didn’t complain. He didn’t ask why the apartment was small or why my couch had a stain. He asked about Maisie’s sleep schedule. He asked what made her laugh. He asked if I’d been getting enough rest, and when I snorted, he looked genuinely pained.

“You’ve been doing this alone,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” I replied.

He sat in silence for a long minute, then said, “I’m sorry.”

Not “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Not “you’re too sensitive.”