I was discharged from the hospital. My parents called, “We’re at the shopping mall preparing for your sister’s birthday.

I said yes.

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.”