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.

The drive was quiet except for Maisie’s occasional soft noises and the sound of my own thoughts pounding louder than the highway.

I kept replaying every moment I’d prioritized them over myself.

 

Every birthday check.

Every “emergency” transfer.

Every time I’d rearranged my schedule like my life was an accessory to theirs.

Because here’s what you need to understand about me.

I’m Jenna. Twenty-seven. And I’ve been bending over backward for my family my entire life.

When my brother Kyle needed money for his startup that never started, I gave him three thousand dollars. When my sister Brinn wanted help with her wedding, I paid for the flowers and the photographer. When my parents needed their roof fixed last year, guess who quietly transferred five grand without telling anyone at work, without putting it on social media, without asking for praise.

 

Me.

The reliable one. The fixer. The good daughter.