My “jobless” brother th:rew me out because dinner wasn’t ready. “Freeloader, you contribute nothing,” he snapped. I said nothing… even when Mom chose him: “He owns this house. Leave.” Funny thing is—I was the one paying the mortgage. So I left… not just the house, but the country and that’s when everything they built started falling apart.

I didn’t feel a single shred of guilt because her apology was conditional and minimized the abuse I endured. I opened a reply window and sent a message back to my cousin for him to relay.

“Please tell Shane that parasites do not pay mortgages or buy groceries,” I wrote. “He told me to leave, and I simply respected his authority as the new man of the house.”

“I wish them the best of luck with the foreclosure, but please do not contact me again,” I concluded. I then blocked every family member who might try to guilt trip me further.

I closed my laptop and looked out at the majestic canals reflecting the afternoon sun. I was thousands of miles away and completely untouchable by the wreckage they had brought upon themselves.