Because women like me are taught to say that—even when we’re not.
At home, I locked the door, took my medication, and slowly lowered myself onto the couch. Then I stared at the ceiling for a long time.
And then I called the bank.
My life insurance policy had one beneficiary.
My sister.
Not anymore.
Changing that wasn’t impulsive.
It was the final step in something I had ignored for years.
The policy had been set up six years earlier when I bought my townhouse. My parents had insisted I name Tessa—“because she’s family.”
Back then, I believed that meant fairness.
Continue on the next page:
