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The notifications started coming in waves.

First my mother: What do you mean? You can't do that. We have an agreement.

Then Eric: Typical. You throw a tantrum and threaten to cut everyone off.

Lauren: Mom, we'll figure something out. Don't panic.

Then Derek: She's bluffing. She always bluffs. She needs us to feel important.

I watched the messages flood the screen, scrolling past the words that had been spoken in tones of mockery and dismissal. There were thirty-seven messages in fifteen minutes. Accusations, threats, demands.

They called me selfish. They called me vindictive. They said I was punishing them for a child's mistake.

Not one of them asked if I was okay.

Not one of them said they were sorry.

Not one of them acknowledged the three years of mortgage payments, the car repairs, the last-minute school fee loans, the insurance premiums, the utility bills, the groceries I'd delivered when Mom was "too tired to shop."

I let the storm rage in the chat and said nothing.

At 11:58, my father sent a private message.

Rachel, please. Your mother is crying. She didn't mean what she said.

I stared at that message for a long, hard minute.

Didn't mean what she said? She meant every word. She'd been meaning it for years. I had just refused to see it.

What about Mason, Dad? I wrote back. Did he mean it?

He's just a boy. He doesn't understand.

I replied: He understands perfectly. He learned from all of you.

I muted the chat and poured myself a glass of wine.

The house I lived in was small but mine. I had bought it myself, with money I'd saved by working nights and weekends while my friends partied. I had painted the walls myself. I had fixed the sink myself. I had built my life myself, without a single dollar from any of them.

And now, standing in my own kitchen, staring at the wine-dark liquid in my glass, I realized something terrible.

I had spent three years trying to buy their love.

And I had never had it in the first place.

I set down the wine and picked up my laptop. The mortgage payment was scheduled to go out at 1:00 AM. I had twenty-four minutes to cancel it.

I clicked through the bank website, found the autopay, and canceled it.

Then I scheduled a meeting with my financial advisor for the next morning.