"You love throwing around the word 'fair.' Then give me the life he has! But you won't. All you ever do is tell me to be understanding, to be patient, to feel sorry for you." My voice cracked with something ugly. "I was too young and too stupid back then. I actually felt bad for you. I shouldn't have."
All of this could have been avoided. Every last bit of it. But for the sake of carrying on the family name, every single one of them just stood there and watched me suffer.
I found my college acceptance letter. Mom's eyes went wide with horror as I pulled out a pair of scissors and cut it to pieces.
She lunged forward to stop me. I shoved her back.
I'd picked accounting as my major for one reason: it was practical, easy to find work after graduation, so I could start earning money and give Mom a better life sooner.
Now I wondered why I'd ever bothered. Why I'd worked myself to the bone for someone who only gave me half.
Graduate with a mountain of debt, or skip the degree and go straight to work? Four fewer years of wasted effort. The math was simple.
I took a selfie—me and the pile of shredded paper—and posted it to Instagram.
The caption: Broke. Done. Not going.