My stepdad refused to pay for my medical treatment. Said, “You’re not worth keeping alive.” And my mom watched him beat me and kick me out. So, I made sure they regretted it. Supreddit: Never thought I’d be posting on here, but I need to get this off my chest. I’ve been dealing with a serious medical condition my whole life, and the way my family handled it nearly destroyed me.

 But karma’s got a funny way of coming back around. I, 27 male, have been dealing with Hashimoto’s thyroiditis since I was born. It’s an autoimmune thyroid disease, which basically means my immune system attacks my thyroid gland. I need daily medication to replace the hormones my thyroid can’t produce anymore, plus regular blood work to make sure the dosage is right.

 Miss a few days of meds and I turn into a zombie, exhausted, brain fog so thick I can’t think straight, joint pain, the works. The medication itself isn’t insanely expensive if you have decent insurance, but without coverage, you’re looking at a few hundred bucks a month easy, plus specialist visits every few months that run another couple hundred each time.

Real fun stuff. My dad was a construction foreman, big guy, 6’3, hands like baseball mitts from years of manual labor. He taught me how to throw a football, change a tire, fix a leaky faucet. He worked 60-hour weeks to keep up with my medical bills and never once complained about it. never made me feel like a burden.

 Then I turned seven and some idiot ran a red light. Dad’s truck got t-boned on the driver’s side. He died at the scene. Didn’t even make it to the hospital. Mom went catatonic for about 3 months after. Just sat in the living room staring at the TV with the sound off. Her sister had to move in to take care of me because mom couldn’t function. The bills piled up.

 The house started falling apart. And I learned real quick what it meant to be inconvenient. Eventually, mom snapped out of it enough to get a job at a dentist’s office doing reception work. The pay was garbage, but dad’s life insurance helped cover the gap. Dad had set it up so mom could keep things afloat, and I’d be covered long-term if anything happened to him.

 Back then, I didn’t think about how the paperwork worked. I just knew the meds kept showing up. So, I assumed the adults were doing what they were supposed to do. For the next 4 years, it was just the two of us in that house. She worked. I went to school. We existed in the same space without really connecting. My medical stuff got handled because the insurance dad had set up was solid and the life insurance money filled in the gaps.

 But there was always this tension like she was constantly doing math in her head about how much I was costing her. Then when I was 11, she met Sterling at some work conference. He sold industrial equipment. The first time I met him, he gave me this weird handshake where he squeezed too hard like he was trying to establish dominance with an 11-year-old kid.

 Sterling had a daughter from his first marriage. Maris was nine, looked like a catalog model, and had been spoiled rotten since birth. Every weekend she visited, she’d complain about our house being too small, our TV being too old, me being weird because I had to take medication. Sterling would just laugh it off like she was being cute instead of a nightmare.

 Mom ate it up, though. Suddenly, she was doing her hair different, buying new clothes, acting like a teenager with a crush. 6 months later, they got married at city hall. No big ceremony, just signed papers and moved Sterling into our house. That’s when everything went to hell. Sterling didn’t waste time. Within a month of the wedding, Dad’s tools hit the curb.

 I found them the night before trash pickup and dragged everything to the back shed. He was smart about taking control, convinced mom to consolidate everything into accounts only he could access. She’d been drowning financially for years, so she said yes. What she didn’t realize, zero access without permission. He gave her an allowance.

 By the time she figured it out, she was trapped. Then he came for my room. Said Maris needed space when she stayed over. Shoved me into the smaller bedroom. Maris got mine. Pink walls, new furniture, everything. Medical bills started piling up around month three. He’d leave them on the counter with notes.

 This again or must be nice having unlimited healthcare. Mom never defended me. Just made excuses. He’s stressed. He’s adjusting. He’s not used to these expenses. Translation: You’re too expensive and I’m choosing him. Maris started staying over more. Then every other week, then weekends. By the time I was 13, she practically lived there.

 Her actual mom checked out. Sterling got custody and mom welcomed it. That’s when the real favoritism kicked in. Maris wanted a laptop. 800 for a MacBook. I needed shoes. Wait another month. Maris joined cheerleading. Two grand for uniforms, fees, and competitions. I asked to refill my prescription early.

Sterling said I should budget my pills better. Crystal clear. Maris was the princess. I was the expensive burden they were stuck with until 18. School became my escape. I joined wrestling because it was free and kept me out late. For 2 hours every day, I got to be normal. Every night, I’d come home to Sterling grunting at me, mom asking questions without listening, and Maris on the couch while I did homework at the kitchen table.

 Junior year, Sterling started forgetting my prescriptions. I’d call the pharmacy. Nothing called in. Miss a few days and everything comes back. Fatigue, brain fog, joint pain. He’d play dumb when I confronted him. Happened too many times to be accidental. Then came the comments. Little digs about how much easier life would be if I wasn’t such a money pit.

How Maris never caused problems or cost anything. How some kids just weren’t worth the investment. He’d say this stuff at dinner while mom stared at her plate. I started working at 16. Hardware store 20 hours a week. Every penny went into a savings account. They didn’t know about different bank school addresses for statements because I knew what was coming.

 Senior year, I was counting down. Decent grades, decent seats, applying to colleges with good aid. The plan, get out, stay out, never look back. Then 3 weeks before my 18th birthday, everything exploded. It was a Tuesday night. I remember because Tuesdays were when mom worked late doing insurance billing at the dentist office and it was just me, Sterling, and Maris at the house.

 I’d been feeling like crap for 3 days because Sterling had forgotten to refill my prescription again. The fatigue was brutal. Could barely keep my eyes open in class. Brain fog so thick I’d read the same paragraph five times and still not process it. My joints ached. I’d called the pharmacy myself that afternoon, and they said the prescription was ready.

 just needed someone to pick it up and pay. I asked Sterling when he got home from work. He was in the kitchen making himself a sandwich, still in his work clothes, acting like I wasn’t even there. Can you pick up my prescription? I really need it. Not tonight. I’m tired. It’ll take 10 minutes. They’re open until 9:00.

 I said, “Not tonight, Dawson. Figure it out yourself. I can’t drive yet and mom won’t be home until 8. I’ve been without medication for 3 days.” He turned around and I saw that look on his face. That particular expression meant he was done pretending to give a darn. You know what your problem is? You’re entitled.

You think the world owes you something because you got dealt a bad hand. Well, news flash. Nobody owes you anything. Your dad might have babied you, but I’m not going to. Something in me snapped. Maybe it was the 3 days without medication making me loopy. Maybe it was 4 years of built up resentment. Maybe I was just done taking his crap.

 My dad didn’t baby me. He took care of me because that’s what parents do. He actually gave a darn about keeping me alive, which is more than I can say for you. Sterling’s face went red. Watch your mouth or what? You’ll forget to pick up my prescription again. You’ll make another comment about how I’m not worth the money.

 You’ve made it pretty obvious you wish I didn’t exist. You’re right. I wish you didn’t exist. You know how much easier life would be without your constant medical drama? Without watching money vanish every month into your bottomless pit of needs? Maris is going to need money for college. Real money for a real future, not just to keep you functioning at bare minimum.

Then why the heck did you marry someone with a sick kid? You knew what you were signing up for. I married your mother, not her defective son. And that life insurance money from your dad should have been saved for Maris’s education, not wasted keeping you medicated. The life insurance money, dad’s life insurance, the money that was supposed to help me that mom had told me was mostly gone years ago.

 What did you just say? Sterling realized his mistake but doubled down instead of backing off. Your mother gave me control of those funds. We use them for family expenses. Real family, not just I don’t remember deciding to say it. The words just came out. Real family. Your daughter’s a spoiled brat who’s never worked a day in her life. At least I have a job.

 At least I don’t expect everyone to worship me just for existing. My dad was worth 10 of you. And you’re not fit to live in his house. I saw Sterling’s hand coming, but I was too slow to dodge. He backhanded me across the face hard enough that I stumbled into the kitchen counter. My vision went white for a second.

 Don’t you ever talk about Maris like that. I touched my mouth and my hand came away bloody. Screw you. He hit me again. This time, a closed fist to the stomach that knocked the wind out of me. I doubled over, gasping, and he grabbed me by the shirt. You want to be a tough guy? Fine. Let’s see how tough you are. What happened next was a blur.

He slammed me against the refrigerator, punched me in the ribs. I tried to fight back, but I was sick, weak, and he outweighed me by 70 lb. I got in one good hit to his jaw before he threw me to the floor and kicked me twice in the side. I heard Maris from the living room doorway. She wasn’t screaming for him to stop or calling for help, just standing there frozen with this weird expression.

Not quite smiling, but not horrified either, like she was watching something happen on TV instead of real life. When our eyes met for a second, she didn’t look away or leave. Just kept watching. That’s what I remember most. Her just standing there, not helping, not even pretending to care. Mom’s voice cut through the chaos. Enough.

 Sterling stopped. I was curled on the kitchen floor, tasting blood. Pretty sure at least one rib was cracked. Mom was standing in the doorway with grocery bags in her hands, face pale. But she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at Sterling. What the heck are you doing? Your son disrespected Maris, disrespected this family.

 Mom finally looked at me. I expected shock, horror, maternal instinct kicking in. Instead, I saw calculations, saw her weighing options, running scenarios. Dawson said terrible things, Sterling continued. Called Maris names, brought up his dead father like that gives him special privileges. I was disciplining him. Discipline? I repeated.

 What are we calling assault now? You’re grounded, Mom said to me. Are you okay? Not let me call someone. Just you’re grounded. I started laughing. Hurt like crazy with the busted ribs, but I couldn’t stop. The absurdity of it all just hit me wrong. Grounded? You’re grounding me? This jerk just beat the crap out of me and you’re mad at me.

Watch your language. Forget my language. Look at me. I’m bleeding. Sterling stepped toward me again. You want round two? Mom put her hand on his chest. Enough, both of you. She turned back to me. Dawson, I am handling your medical situation the best I can, but I cannot do this anymore. This fighting, this attitude, I can’t take it.

 Then don’t, I said quietly. Good, Sterling said. Pack your stuff and get out. You’re 18 in 3 weeks anyway. Consider this early. I looked at Mom, waiting for her to intervene, waiting for some shred of maternal instinct to kick in. She looked away. Fine, I said. It took me 20 minutes to pack. Every item I owned fit into one duffel bag and a backpack.

 I grabbed my laptop, my clothes, the few personal items that mattered. In the back of my closet, I found an old shoe box with photos of dad. Pictures mom thought she’d thrown away, but that I’d saved. Those went in, too. Sterling stood in my doorway the whole time, arms crossed, making sure I didn’t take anything he considered theirs.

 Like, I’d want a reminder of this dump. When I came downstairs, mom was crying at the kitchen table. fake tears. The kind she used to get sympathy. Dawson, please don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’m not the one making it hard. Where will you go? Does it matter? I walked past her, past Sterling’s smug face, past Maris, who was peeking from the living room like this was her personal reality show.

 I walked out the front door of the house my dad had bought, the house his construction job had paid for, the house where he’d taught me to be a man. And I didn’t look back. I walked six blocks to a gas station, sat on the curb under those buzzing lights with my duffel bag like it was a bad sitcom prop, and called the only family I had left, my uncle Vaughn.

Vaughn was Dad’s younger brother. He’d been in the Navy for 20 years, done two tours overseas, retired stateside, and worked as a contractor now. He lived about an hour away in a small house he bought cash with his retirement money. We’d stayed in touch over the years, despite mom’s attempts to cut dad’s family out.

He’d send me birthday cards with cash, call me on holidays, make it clear I always had somewhere to go if I needed it. He answered on the second ring. Dawson, a little late for a social call. My voice cracked. Uncle Vaughn, I need help. Where are you? I told him. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t hesitate. Stay there. I’m coming to get you.

 He showed up 45 minutes later in his beat up Ford pickup. Took one look at my face and went quiet in that dangerous way military guys do when they’re trying not to explode. Who did this? Sterling. Your stepdad. Yeah. Get in the truck. We’re going to the ER. I’m fine. You’re not fine. You’re hurt.

 You haven’t had your medication in days, and we need this documented. No arguments. The ER was mostly empty at that hour. Some kid with a broken arm, an old guy with chest pains, the usual Tuesday night crowd. The triage nurse took one look at me and moved me up the list. They did X-rays, confirming what I already knew.

 fractured rib, severe bruising to my torso and face, lacerations that needed cleaning. The doctor was this older woman who’d probably seen every type of abuse case imaginable. She took photos, asked questions in that careful way medical professionals do when they suspect domestic violence. Who did this to you? My stepdad.

 Are you safe now? Yeah, I’m with my uncle. I’m not going back there. She nodded, made notes. I’m a mandated reporter. I have to file a report with the police about this. You’re 17 with documented injuries from an assault. Do you want to press charges? I looked at Vaughn. He gave me the smallest nod. Yes.

 The ER doctor called it in while they were patching me up. By the time they discharged me at midnight with pain meds and instructions to follow up, there was already a detective waiting to talk to me. He specialized in domestic cases, knew Vaughn from some contracting work, and had that look cops get when they’ve seen too much bad stuff.

 He took us to the station and sat with me in an interview room while I gave a statement. I told him everything. The years of Sterling’s escalation, the favoritism toward Maris, the withheld medication. Showed him the text message screenshots I’d been saving for months. Sterling said not tonight about prescriptions.

Saying I needed to figure it out myself. All of it. I’d known something was coming. I’d been documenting it like evidence because some part of me understood I might need proof someday. Smart kid, he said, scrolling through the screenshots. Most people don’t think about saving this stuff. I also had my pharmacy refill history.

 I’d asked for the print out two weeks ago. Not because I was a genius, but because I was tired of guessing whether he was messing with me. The gaps were obvious. Prescription due on the 5th, not filled until the 15th. Due on the 20th, not filled until the 30th. A clear pattern of medical neglect.

 He took photos of my injuries, collected the ER discharge papers, logged the screenshots and pharmacy records as evidence. Then he looked at Vaughn. There are strong injuries tonight, a pattern of neglect, and he’s still a minor. I can get a warrant and bring him in. Do it, Van said. He made some calls. Judges hate getting woken up, but a bleeding minor with X-rays tends to do the trick. By 200 a.m.

, they had a warrant. They went to the house, pulled Sterling out in handcuffs while the neighbors watched through their windows. Mom called me 17 times that night. I didn’t answer any of them. By morning, Sterling was being held on assault and child endangerment charges. Bail was set at $50,000.

 I figured that would keep him locked up for a while since he was always complaining about money. I was wrong. Mom bailed him out the next day. Came up with the full 50 grand cash. I found out when the detective called to warn me. Your stepfather posted bail. He’s out. How? He doesn’t have that kind of money. His wife paid for it.

 Your mother? My stomach dropped. Where’d she get $50,000? Didn’t say, but it was cash, not bonded. I knew exactly where. Dad’s life insurance money. The money that was supposed to be gone. The money Sterling had mentioned during the fight. I called Uncle Vaughn immediately. Mom bailed him out. With what money? My guess.

 Dad’s insurance money that she said was spent. Sterling slipped up during the fight and mentioned having control of those funds. Vaughn was quiet for a long moment. How much was your dad’s policy? 200,000. And she told you it was gone years ago. said it went to bills and expenses. Dawson, I need you to listen carefully.

 If your mother used your inheritance money, money left specifically for your care to bail out the man who assaulted you, that’s illegal. That money wasn’t hers to use like that. What can I do about it? You can sue her for it. Every penny, and given the circumstances, you’d probably win. My uncle hired an attorney with some of my savings from the hardware store job.

 Not anyone fancy, just a local guy who specialized in family law and had decent reviews. What matters is that he took one look at my situation and said I had a case. The life insurance policy had me listed as the primary beneficiary after mom. She was supposed to use it for my care and well-being. Instead, she’d given Sterling control of it, used it for family expenses that benefited everyone but me, and then used it to bail out my abuser.

 The attorney filed a civil suit against mom for misappropriation of funds. asked for the full value of the policy plus damages. It was a long shot, but we had evidence. Bank records showing transfers to Sterling, the timing of the bail payment, my medical records showing gaps in care despite the insurance money being available. The lawsuit got filed on a Friday.

 By Saturday morning, mom showed up at Uncle Vaughn’s house. I was in the kitchen making breakfast when I heard her car pull up. Van looked out the window and his expression went dark. Stay inside. I’ll handle this. No, I said I need to face her. She came up the driveway screaming before she even reached the door.

 How dare you? How dare you sue your own mother. Van stepped out first,putting himself between her and the door. Grace, you need to leave. I need to see Dawson. I need to talk sense into him. He doesn’t want to see you. He’s my son. I stepped out onto the porch. I’m right here. She looked at me and her face twisted with rage.

 You ungrateful little jerk. After everything I’ve done for you, after all the years I spent taking care of you, making sure you had what you needed. You mean the years you spent using Dad’s money? The money he left for me? That money kept a roof over your head, kept food on the table. You think your medical bills were the only expense? I think you gave 50 grand to Sterling and used the rest on Maris.

 I think you’ve been lying to me for years about that money being gone. I made decisions for this family. Maris isn’t my family. Sterling sure as heck isn’t. You stopped being my family the second you let him beat me and kicked me out. She pointed at me, handshaking. You’re just like your father. Stubborn, selfish, never considering anyone else.

Good. I’d rather be like him than anything like you. Your father was weak. He worked himself to death for you. And look where it got him. Dead at 39. Something in me went cold and calm. Get off this property. You’re going to regret this. That money was mine. The insurance company paid it for me. It was for me and you stole it.

 I’m your mother. I made sacrifices. You made choices. You chose Sterling over me. You chose his daughter over your son. You chose to let him beat me and kick me out. And now you’re choosing to act like the victim when you’re the one who used my money to bail out my abuser. So here’s my choice. Get out of my life, Dawson. I said, get out.

 She stood there for a moment, tears streaming down her face. But I felt nothing. No sympathy, no guilt, no regret, just relief that I was finally saying what needed to be said. “You’ll lose,” she said quietly. “That money’s gone, spent. You’ll never see a penny of it. Then you’ll go to jail.

 Your choice,” she left, probably heading back to cry to Sterling about her terrible son who dared to stand up for himself. Vaughn put his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” “Yeah, actually I am.” The lawsuit dragged on for months. Depositions, court dates, paperwork. My attorney was good, though. He tracked down every transfer, every expenditure, and built a timeline of how mom had systematically misused the insurance money.

 Walked me through a spreadsheet that looked like a crime scene, Maris’s cheer fees highlighted in yellow, Sterling’s debt payments in red. Turned out she’d given Sterling control of it within 6 months of marrying him, and they’d burned through most of it on Maris’s expenses and Sterling’s debt. The 50 grand for bail was pulled from what remained in a savings account mom had kept hidden.

 She told the court it was from her own savings, but bank records showed it came from the same account the insurance money had been deposited into years ago. The judge wasn’t happy about someone using inheritance money meant for a sick minor to bail out his assailant. Ruled in my favor, ordered mom to pay back the full policy amount plus interest and legal fees. Mom didn’t have it.

 The account was empty. Her lawyer tried to stall it out, but the bank records killed every excuse in 5 minutes. Judge set up a payment plan that garnished her wages, put a lean on the house, dad’s house that Sterling had been living in entry. The lean hurt, but the gossip finished her. Her job was a fishbowl, and once Sterling’s arrest hit the public record, the rest of the story followed.

 Mom tried calling me unstable to anyone who’d listened. Nobody listened. Breakroom chats died when she walked in. Patients started avoiding her desk. Her hours got cut. She’d spent years choosing appearances over me. And now appearances were the thing that buried her. They had to sell it. Moved into a cramped apartment off Route 9 by the discount grocery.

 I didn’t feel bad about it even a little. About 3 months after the ruling, Uncle Vaughn asked if I wanted to drive by the old house, see the sold sign, get some closure. Part of me didn’t want to. Why revisit that place? But another part needed to see it, needed to witness the consequences. We pulled up on a Saturday morning.

 The sign was there. Bright red sold stickers slapped across it. A U-Haul was parked in the driveway and Mom and Sterling were loading boxes. They looked smaller somehow. Defeated. Sterling’s BMW was gone, replaced by some beaten down sedan. Mom’s hair had gone mostly gray. Sterling noticed us first. He stopped midlift with a box in his hands, staring at Uncle V’s truck.

 Then his eyes found me in the passenger seat. For a second, I thought he might come over. start something, try to salvage some dignity. Instead, he just looked away, set the box down, and went back inside. Mom saw us, too. She started toward the truck, but Uncle Vaughn shook his head through the window. She stopped.

 Just stood there on the lawn of the house my father had bought, the house she’d given to Sterling, the house that was now someone else’s because of her choices. I looked at her, she looked at me, and I felt nothing. and I am not angry, not sadness, not vindication, just this cold, empty nothing. “You done?” Van asked. “Yeah, I’m done.” We drove away.

 Van told me later that Sterling had lost his job a few weeks after the arrest record went public. Turns out corporate finance firms don’t love employing guys who assault teenagers. I never went back. During all this, I was living with Uncle Vaughn and trying to figure out what came next. I’d graduated high school but missed the college application deadlines while everything was exploding.

 Vaughn suggested the military. You need structure, purpose, and health care that won’t bankrupt you. The military checks all three boxes. Plus, with your medical situation documented and managed, you can get a waiver. I know people who can help with that. I’d never considered the military, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made.

 The benefits were solid. I’d have housing, food, healthcare, all covered. could save money, build skills, figure out who I was outside of being the sick kid everyone paid. I enlisted three weeks after my 18th birthday. MEPS disqualified me initially because of the Hashimoto’s. Any thyroid condition is an automatic flag, but my recruiter said waivers were possible if I could prove long-term stability.

 I brought documentation from my endocrinologist showing I’d been on the same medication dose for 3 years with normal lab results, pharmacy records proving consistent refills, and a letter stating my condition was fully controlled with no complications. The waiver board cleared me for a support role. Nothing combat related, but I didn’t care.

 I was in. Shipped out to basic training 2 months later. Basic was tough, but not the kind I couldn’t handle. I’d spent seven years dealing with Sterling’s nonsense. drill sergeants yelling at me was nothing. The physical training actually helped. I got stronger, healthier than I’d been in years. My name, the structure, the routine, the clear expectations, it all just worked for me.

 After basic and AIT, I got stationed in North Carolina, made decent money, especially considering I had no expenses. Lived on base, ate at the Messaul, spent my free time at the gym or taking online classes toward a degree in business management. The medication was covered by military healthcare. My life became simple, focused, exactly what I needed.

 By 22, I was a specialist. By 25, I deployed once to a relatively calm region. By 27, I was back stateside training new recruits. Had money saved, had career prospects, had my health locked down. For the first time since dad died, I felt like I had control over my life. I was doing well. Built a life that didn’t involve mom, Sterling, or any of that past drama.

Then mom started calling again. I was 27 when the first voicemail came through. 9 years since I’d walked out of that house. 9 years since I’d spoken to mom or Sterling or given a single thought to Maris. Dawson, it’s mom. I know it’s been a long time. I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I really need to talk to you. It’s important.

Please call me back. I deleted it without a second thought. She tried again a week later. Then again, then email started coming. Dawson, please. I need your help. We’re in trouble. Delete. Delete. Delete. Then Uncle Vaughn called me. Your mother contacted me. Asked for your number. Told her I’d pass along the message, but that was it.

What’s the message? She wants to see you. Says it’s urgent. Wouldn’t tell me specifics. Did you tell her where I’m stationed? Heck no. Just that I’d pass it along. Up to you what you do with it. I thought about ignoring it completely, but curiosity got the better of me. After nine years of silence, what could possibly be urgent enough that mom would track down Uncle Vaughn? She called again on Saturday afternoon.

 She answered immediately like she’d been waiting by the phone. Dawson. Oh my god. Thank you for calling. I didn’t think you would. What do you want? I need to see you. Can we meet somewhere? I’ll drive to you wherever you are. Not happening. Say what you need to say or I’m hanging up. She was quiet for a moment. Then we need money.

 We need help. Things are bad, Dawson. Really bad. That’s not my problem. Please, just hear me out. Apparently, life hadn’t been kind to the family that kicked me out. Sterling lost his job after the assault conviction, some ethics violation that blacklisted him from his field. He’d been bouncing between low-wage jobs ever since.

 Mom was still working at the dentist office, but it barely covered rent on their small apartment. And Maris, Maris had really outdone herself. Three kids in five years, three different fathers, zero child support coming in. She moved back home expecting mom and Sterling to patch it all together while she worked part-time retail and spent her paycheck on herself. She’s struggling.

 Mom said she’s trying her best, but it’s hard being a single mother. She made her choices multiple times. The kids need help. They’re family. Dawson, they’re not my family. I haven’t seen these people in 9 years. But you’re doing well. Van said, “You’ve been successful in the military. We just need a little help to get back on our feet.” No.

Dawson, please. You kicked me out when I needed help. You chose Sterling, chose Maris, chose everyone but me. Now you want my money. You’ve got some nerve. That was different. How? I was sick, needed medication to survive, and you let your husband beat me and throw me out. Now your stepdaughter made bad choices, and you want me to bail her out? Hard pass.

 Those children are innocent. So was I. Where was your concern when I was the innocent one getting screwed over? Mom started crying. The same fake tears from years ago. The ones designed to manipulate. I made mistakes. I know I did. But I’m still your mother. Biologically, sure. But that stopped meaning anything the day you chose Sterling’s fist over my safety. She tried a different angle.

Your father would be ashamed of you. I actually laughed at that. My father worked himself to death to take care of me. He never once made me feel like a burden. He’d be ashamed of you for what you did with his insurance money for choosing Sterling over his son. Don’t you dare invoke him to manipulate me.

 We need $20,000 or we’re on the street. I have $20,000. You know where I got it? From never having to support three kids I couldn’t afford. From making smart choices. From working my butt off instead of expecting handouts. So, you’ll just let us be homeless? Let your mother be homeless? You’ll figure it out. You’re resourceful.

 I mean, you figured out how to steal my inheritance and use it on Sterling’s princess daughter. Surely you can figure out how to support her poor life choices without my help. Silence on the other end. Then Sterling’s voice in the background. Is he helping or not? Put him on, I said. Mom must have handed over the phone because suddenly Sterling’s voice came through. Dawson, been a long time.

 Not long enough. Look, I know we had our differences, but right now we need help and you’re in a position to provide it. You’re doing fine. You can help without it hurting you. The manipulation was so transparent it was almost insulting. You mean like when you refused to help with my medication because you were saving money for Maris’s future? That was different.

 You had insurance and now Maris has three kids she can’t afford. Funny how the rules change when it’s your kid, huh? Those children need support. Then support them. You said she was worth the investment. Remember? Time to prove it. We don’t have the money. Yeah, well, I’m not worth the investment. You made that really clear. So, this is where your investment strategy pays off.

 Maris gets to stand on her own just like I did. Good luck with that. You’re going to let innocent children suffer because you’re holding a grudge. I’m going to let adults deal with the consequences of their actions. Those kids exist because Maris made choices. Those are her consequences, not mine. You’re heartless.

 No wonder your mother gave up on you. My mother gave up on me the day she chose you. And I’m doing fine without her. Something tells me you won’t do nearly as well without my money. Screw you, Dawson. Right back at you, Sterling. Enjoy poverty. I hear it builds character. I hung up. They tried calling back 14 times that night.

I blocked the number. Then they tried emailing. I filtered those to spam. Then mom tried contacting Uncle Vaughn again. He told her to lose his number. 3 months later, I got a message from an account I didn’t recognize. It was Maris. She’d tracked me down through some mutual connection from high school, sent me this long sober story about being a struggling single mother, about how hard her life was, about how she just needed help getting on her feet.

 I read the whole thing, then I blocked her, too. They’d had their chance at family. They’d chosen to treat me like garbage, use my money, support the man who hurt me, and now they wanted charity. Not from me, never from me. After I blocked them, I went back to work Monday and didn’t think about them again for months.