Robert snorted. “You’ll blow it in a year.”
“Maybe,” I replied. “But if I do, it’ll be my mistake.”
They left in a flurry of perfume and slammed doors. Peter squeezed my shoulder. “You okay, kiddo?”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “But for the first time, I feel like I stand a chance.”
In the months that followed, I moved into Grandpa’s condo, transferred to a university nursing program, and learned from Blake how to manage the trust. I bought a used car, kept a budget, went to therapy, and filled my life with people who showed up.
My parents sent occasional emails, usually when another bill came due. I answered briefly. The hurt was still there, but it no longer dictated every choice.
On the one-year anniversary of my surgery, I stood on the balcony, fingers resting over my scar. Somewhere in the city, my family was probably posing for another brunch selfie, captioned “Living our best life.”
Mine looked different: textbooks on the table, thrift-store furniture, a fridge covered in notes and Polaroids. It was ordinary and mine.
“You are not anyone’s problem,” Grandpa had written. “You are the person you get to choose to be.”
