Goodstorie

Hi there, I’m Skyler. Ever wondered what it feels like when your own family erases you from the picture? Literally, they hijacked my baby shower, stole my savings, and even spread lies to ruin my life. But why would a family destroy someone they once loved? Before we dive in, have you ever felt like an outsider in your own home? Tell me, what time are you listening to this, and where are you watching from? Drop a comment below. I can’t wait to hear your story.

The morning light spilled across the kitchen counter, catching the dust motes like glitter in the air. I moved carefully around the small house, adjusting pink ribbons and setting tiny plates with pink cupcakes. Each swirl of frosting painstakingly piped the night before. My hands trembled slightly, a nervous anticipation building inside me. This was supposed to be my day, my moment. I hung the final decoration, a soft pink banner reading, “Welcome baby girl” right across the entrance to the living room. I stood back, hands on hips, and tried to imagine the smiles, the embraces, the congratulations. Maybe, just maybe, this time they’d actually see me.

The doorbell rang. I wiped my hands on my jeans and hurried to answer it. Wanda’s familiar perfume hit me first, a floral cloud that made my eyes sting for reasons unrelated to the scent. She stepped in, Ronald right behind her, carrying what looked suspiciously like a wrapped book. “Skyler, honey, look how big you’re getting,” Wanda said, patting my belly in a way that made me feel more like property than daughter. I laughed thin and brittle and led them inside. One by one, the house filled with people. Neighbors, distant cousins, a few friends from my old high school days. Laughter ricocheted off the walls. For a fleeting moment, I thought maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

And then I saw Ricky, tall, lean, practically glowing in his Harvard sweatshirt. He lapped up the attention like a desert flower catching rain. When Aunt May pulled out a massive cake box and shouted, “Surprise for Ricky,” I felt my stomach lurch. The cake wasn’t for me. It was emblazoned in red letters. “Congrats, Ricky, our Ivy Leaguer.” A buzzing sound filled my ears. I turned around slowly, my heart pounding. That was when I saw it. The pink “Welcome, baby girl” banner was gone. In its place, hanging crookedly but proudly, was a gaudy, gold-glittered monstrosity. “Congratulations, Ricky.” No one noticed my face fall. No one cared that my hands trembled so badly I almost dropped the tray of cupcakes. Wanda beamed at Ricky like he’d hung the stars himself. Ronald was already clinking glasses with Uncle Pete, toasting to our boy’s bright future. I stood there, a balloon in my hand, feeling like a footnote in my own life.

I tried to rationalize it. Maybe they just meant to surprise Ricky and still celebrate me, too. Maybe the banner was a mistake. Maybe. Maybe nothing. Because when I glanced toward the gift table, every neatly wrapped present had a tiny white card attached, each one addressed not to me or my unborn daughter, but to Ricky. I swallowed hard, forcing a tight smile as people brushed past me like I wasn’t even there. I felt like a ghost, invisible inside my own skin. Sixteen years ago, I had stood at my high school graduation, scanning the crowd for their faces. They hadn’t come. Wanda had said she was too busy at the library’s annual audit. Ronald had claimed a plumbing emergency. I had promised myself that day I would never need them again. Yet here I was hoping.

“Sky, get a picture with your brother,” someone called. I wanted to scream. I wanted to rip that banner down and set it on fire. Instead, I nodded, silent, obedient, still playing the part of the good daughter who doesn’t make scenes. The condensation on my glass ran down my fingers, slick and cold, as if my body was rejecting the farce unfolding around me. I stood there for another hour, watching as my baby shower officially became Ricky’s launch party. Guests cheered as he announced his intended major, economics. Wanda wept openly with pride. Ronald slapped his back like he’d just returned from war. No one asked how far along I was. No one asked about names. No one even touched the tiny favors I had spent three weekends making by hand. I squeezed the teacup so tightly my knuckles turned white. The porcelain groaned in protest. Maybe it was never really about me at all.

Financial Betrayal and Public Humiliation

The house smelled of stale icing and disappointment. I moved mechanically, clearing crumpled napkins and half-eaten cupcakes into a trash bag. The pink tablecloth, once so full of promise, sagged under the weight of forgotten plates. My feet dragged with every step, the silence of the empty house pressing down on me like a physical weight. I stood in the living room, surrounded by traces of a party that wasn’t mine. My stomach tightened, not from the baby’s kicks, but from something colder. Loneliness gnawed at the edges of my resolve. I had thrown my own baby shower, and somehow I had managed to be the only one not celebrated.

When I slumped onto the couch, the old leather squealed under my weight. I pulled out my phone, craving some distraction. Maybe a message from someone who noticed something. Anything. One new email blinked at me. Payment confirmation. Golden Gala Banquet Hall. $4,200 charged to your account. My heart slammed against my ribs. I hadn’t booked anything. I hadn’t spent anything. I stared, unblinking, rereading the line again and again until the words blurred. Trembling, I logged into my bank app. My maternity savings account, the one I’d scraped together with every extra shift and every skipped meal, was drained. Zero balance. I pressed my hand to my belly as if shielding my daughter from this violation. The phone slipped from my fingers and hit the carpet with a muffled thud. I crouched down, clutching it, willing myself to breathe. I checked the attached invoice. Golden Gala Banquet Hall, venue rental, catering, decor, and DJ services for Ricky’s graduation bash. My name was on the contract, my signature forged. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a theft. A roar built inside me, silent and violent. I clutched the edge of the coffee table, knuckles bleaching white. This wasn’t just disrespect. This was a knife to the back.

Sixteen years ago, I had begged my parents to cosign a loan for community college. Wanda had laughed. Ronald had shaken his head, muttering something about “earning it the hard way.” I had nodded, swallowing the rejection like medicine. Now they stole from me without hesitation, smiling the whole time. I stormed into the kitchen, opened the drawer where Mom always kept spare documents during her visits—bills, appointment reminders, receipts. There it was, a crumpled copy of the contract, my name, her handwriting. I couldn’t stop the hot tear that slipped down my cheek, not from sadness, but fury. The front door opened. Wanda’s voice floated in, casual, almost cheerful. “Skye, sweetheart, we’re thinking of doing a second party for Ricky. Maybe something outdoors this summer.” I held up the paper without a word. Her eyes flickered barely, but I caught it. She pasted on a smile so fake it hurt to look at. “Oh, honey, don’t get all emotional. Pregnancy hormones make mountains out of mole hills. You know that.” I stared at her, the words splashing against my ears, meaningless. She patted my arm like I was a child throwing a tantrum over spilled milk. “You’ll understand when you’re older,” she added with a wink. “Older.” I was 34, about to be a mother, and yet somehow still invisible. I didn’t answer. I didn’t scream. I didn’t crumble. Instead, I walked past her, silent, seething up the stairs into my bedroom. I printed out the invoice and laid it on my nightstand. The baby kicked hard against my ribs as if sensing the change inside me. I touched my stomach, feeling the tiny heartbeat that had no idea what world it was about to enter. I would not let them take everything.

The Plot Thickens: Defamation and Deception

I tried to force the rhythm of a normal life. I folded laundry while sitcoms laughed at jokes that barely registered. I scrubbed the kitchen until my hands turned raw. I rocked slowly in the creaky armchair, one hand resting on my stomach, counting the seconds between kicks and silence. But “normal” felt like a costume that didn’t fit. Every breath tasted stale. Every shadow in the house stretched too long, too accusing. No matter how much I cleaned or smiled or moved, the sense of betrayal hung around my neck like a lead chain.

Two nights later, Ronald invited a few neighbors over, some old friends from the union hall, men with voices like sandpaper and laughter that rattled the windows. I stayed upstairs, but hunger dragged me down. I made myself small, slipping into the corner of the dining room to grab a plate. That’s when I heard him. “Skyler’s still hanging around. Huh?” One of them chuckled. Ronald leaned back in his chair, a beer belly pushing against his stained t-shirt. His voice was loud, careless. “Yeah, she’s a damn burden now. Should have flown the nest years ago, but nope. Still here, eating free, crying about her kid.” The words hit harder than any slap could. The men roared with laughter. Plates clinked. Someone slapped Ronald on the back like he’d just delivered the punchline of the century. I stood frozen, clutching a paper plate so tight it crumpled in my fist. My face burned, not just from the insult, but from the way he said it, like it was a fact, a weather report, unchangeable. I could have walked into that room and burst into flames, and they would have laughed harder. Without a word, I turned and walked back upstairs, leaving the broken plate to flutter to the floor like a dying bird. I lay on my bed in the dark, staring at the ceiling fan, feeling the blades slice the air over and over.

Hours later, after the last car pulled away, I heard Ronald on the phone downstairs. His voice was low. “Careful now. No, she’s real emotional lately. Crying all the time, paranoid. Might be postpartum depression already. You know how it is with unstable girls. Should qualify for extra support if we file now.” I sat bolt upright, heart hammering. I crept to the stairwell and leaned closer. His words spilled out in a sick rhythm, describing me like a broken machine he needed to pawn off for cash. “I’ll fill out the forms tomorrow. Just need a doctor’s signature and we’re golden.” He laughed. Short, mean. My hands shook. I clutched the banister so tightly my nails bit into the wood. They weren’t just taking my money. They were trying to take my dignity, my future, frame me as unfit before my child even took her first breath. Sixteen years ago, I had begged them to believe I wasn’t lying when I said I had won the science fair. They hadn’t even shown up, just muttered, “You probably cheated,” and turned back to the TV. “Some things never change.” I sat on my bed and cried, not loud sobs, but the quiet, gut-wrenching kind that tasted of metal and regret. In the morning, while Ronald slept off the booze, I found the paperwork tucked into his jacket pocket. My name spelled wrong, my condition fabricated. I held the forms over the trash can, the flames from my anger almost enough to set them alight without a match. Instead, I tore them piece by jagged piece, whispering under my breath. “They think they can define me. They have no idea who they’re dealing with.”

Stolen Heirlooms and Rising Resolve

The garage smelled of dust and gasoline, a stale cocktail that clung to the back of my throat. I rummaged through the boxes I’d so carefully packed for Emma. Baby clothes, tiny shoes, handstitched blankets, and found half of them missing. Gaps yawned open in the neat rows, empty spaces where my future had once been carefully folded. At first, I thought maybe Wanda had moved things, reorganized in some misguided attempt to help. But the deeper I looked, the more items I realized were simply gone. I climbed to the attic, each step groaning under my weight and my rising dread. The battered trunk that once held keepsakes from my childhood—awards, old jewelry from Grandma Pearl, letters from friends—sat open like a crime scene. Only scraps remained: empty jewelry boxes, torn envelopes. A cold certainty spread through me. I didn’t even bother confronting Wanda. Her apologies, if they came, would taste like vinegar and lies.

Instead, I drove to Pat’s Pawn on Main Street. It wasn’t even hard to find. In the window display, nestled between scratched guitars and dusty fishing rods, hung my grandmother’s opal necklace. The one she gave me for my 15th birthday, whispering, “You’re worth something, even if the world forgets.” My hands trembled as I walked in. “Pat,” the owner, barely glanced up. “Help you?” I pointed stiffly. “That necklace? Where did it come from?” He shrugged. “Some lady, mid-50s, brown hair, southern accent, said she needed cash quick. Looked like she was selling family heirlooms. Ain’t unusual these days.” My stomach dropped. Without asking the price, I bought it back. The chain felt like a noose in my palm. As I waited for my receipt, my eyes drifted to a battered side shelf where stuffed animals, rattles, and pastel-wrapped gifts were piled in a sad mountain. My heart stalled. Among them, a plush lamb with “baby Emma” stitched in delicate pink letters. I staggered forward, touching the lamb as if it might vanish. “That just came in yesterday,” Pat said casually. “Whole box from the same lady. Said they were extra gifts her daughter didn’t need.” My vision blurred. I bought the entire box—every bottle, blanket, and onesie. Pieces of love meant for Emma, ripped from our home and bartered like junk.

Driving home, the sunset blurred into streaks of blood and rust across the windshield. Sixteen years ago, I had found my favorite teddy bear ripped open in the trash after my parents said we couldn’t afford extra nonsense. I had stitched it back together with clumsy fingers, refusing to let go of something that felt like mine. Some lessons, it seemed, had to be learned twice. Back at the house, Wanda and Ricky laughed over dinner, ignorant or indifferent to the theft. Their voices floated upstairs as I retreated to my room, box in hand. I sat on the floor, sifting through the salvaged remains. My chest ached, but not from sadness alone. Beneath the grief, something harder, sharper, was forming. Not rage, not yet. Resolve. I gathered what I had saved: Emma’s gifts, the necklace, a few tarnished trinkets, and placed them gently in a small metal safe I found in the garage. The lock clicked shut with a finality that echoed through the hollow spaces of the house. I traced the safe’s cool metal surface, whispering, “From now on, I protect what’s mine.” For a brief moment, it felt like the sun cracked through the endless gray.

The Digital Assault and Erased Memories

I closed the deal with Haven Creative Solutions, my biggest client yet. The contract lay on my desk, the ink still drying. I allowed myself to believe just for a second that maybe, just maybe, I was clawing my way back. I didn’t even celebrate, just sat there, pressing my hand against my stomach, whispering promises to Emma that things would be better, safer, real. By the next morning, that dream began to bleed at the edges. First came the hesitant emails. Clients who just days ago had been enthusiastic now sounded cautious, their language brittle and vague. Some apologized for unforeseen circumstances. Others said nothing at all, just canceled meetings and cut ties. Confused, I buried myself deeper into work until a message landed in my inbox with the subject line “concerned.” It was from a longtime collaborator. “Skyler, I thought you should know. Someone’s been spreading things about your mental health. They’re saying you’re unstable, dangerous to work with. I’m so sorry.” I stared at the words, feeling the ground tilt under me. I dug deeper, clicking through forums, group chats, client message boards. It didn’t take long to find it: anonymous emails, vague but poisonous, claiming I was having episodes, that I was unfit to manage projects, that stress had made me erratic and unsafe. Each whisper was a dagger slicing through the fragile trust I had built.

And then I saw it. One of the leaked messages included a slip, a timestamp that matched Ricky’s gaming handle—not even a careful one. Just a sloppy juvenile oversight. He had done this. He had weaponized the one thing my parents had always thrown at me whenever I questioned them: mental instability. He had taken it public. He had painted me as unworthy in front of strangers who held my future in their hands. Sixteen years ago, he had destroyed my winning science fair project by blaming it on my bad attitude. Everyone had believed him because he smiled brighter, talked louder. Now he was doing it again, but on a scale that could starve Emma and me. I sat frozen in front of the screen, every muscle locked tight. There were two ways to react. I could fall apart. Or I could fight smarter than he ever imagined. So I started gathering. I took screenshots, backed up email chains, recorded dates and names and links. I filed it all into an encrypted drive, naming the file simply “insurance.” I didn’t cry, didn’t scream. There wasn’t time for that. By midnight, I sat alone in the dim glow of my laptop, a fortress of proof growing by the minute. “You declared war,” I whispered, voice low, deadly calm. “You’re about to see how I end it.”

For a few foolish moments, I thought things could change. The file of evidence against Ricky sat heavy but reassuring on my desk. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a bridge left between me and my mother. Maybe she just didn’t know how deep the damage ran. Maybe she wasn’t completely lost. That hope shattered when I opened my social media feed. Photos splashed across the screen. Big smiles, glittering balloons, and Ricky front and center holding a trophy like he’d just solved World Hunger. Mom beamed beside him, the caption screaming, “So proud of my brilliant son, our perfect family.” No mention of the baby, no mention of the shower, no trace that it had ever existed. I scrolled faster, searching for any glimpse of the day that had once been meant for Emma and me. Nothing. It was like someone had taken an eraser and scrubbed us out of existence. The blow landed low, sharp, like being downed in public. Tears blurred the screen, but I blinked them back, breathing through my nose until the sting faded to something harder, something cold. A tag notification popped up, another album: “Family memories.” Curious despite myself, I clicked. The images punched the air from my lungs. There we were. Or at least there they were. Wanda, Ronald, Ricky, all smiles and laughter. I recognized the backdrops: Thanksgiving, Christmas, beach trips from years ago. Except I wasn’t in them. The photos had been crudely edited. Where I had once stood, there were plants, cropped corners, empty spaces too glaring to ignore. It was like watching a magician make someone disappear. Except the trick wasn’t an illusion. It was intentional. One caption burned hotter than the rest: “Finally, the perfect family we always deserved.”

I stumbled backward, the chair legs scraping harshly against the hardwood floor. I barely made it to the couch before collapsing, clutching my abdomen protectively. Sixteen years ago, I had overheard Mom whisper to Aunt Linda after a school recital: “If only Skyler weren’t so difficult, our family would be perfect.” Back then, I’d convinced myself she didn’t mean it. Now the proof stared me straight in the face, pixelated but undeniable. They had already erased me in their hearts long before today. For a long time I sat there, fists curled, mind racing nowhere. I didn’t cry, couldn’t—even my tears had too much dignity to fall for them anymore. Slowly, methodically, I pulled out my laptop. I drafted an email to Mom. Nothing cruel, nothing desperate, just a line: “It didn’t have to be this way.” I hovered over the send button. Then I deleted it. They didn’t deserve even that. Instead, I opened a new document. Papers for a legal petition to reclaim the property title under my name alone. Quiet revenge. No screaming matches, no final showdown, just the slow, inevitable closing of doors they had been slamming for years. As the cursor blinked steadily on the screen, I whispered to the silent room, “You made your choice. Now I make mine.”

Legal Action and A New Path

The front door rattled on its hinges before I could even reach it. Ricky shoved it open, his face red, his voice louder than the door slam. “You think you can just erase us?” he shouted, storming into the living room like he owned it. “Drop the lawsuit, Skyler. Now!” I stood rooted, arms crossed over my chest, the letter from my lawyer heavy in my hand. My heart banged in my ribs, but my feet didn’t move. “You’re being selfish,” he barked, stepping closer, his breath sharp with rage. “This is family.” I didn’t flinch. I handed him the envelope, his hand smacked it away before it could land in his palm, sending it fluttering to the ground. “You’re crazy, you know that?” I picked up the letter without bending, calm, controlled. “This is a cease and desist. You’re trespassing and next time I won’t answer the door.” His laugh was hollow. “You’re nothing without us, Skylar. You think your kid’s going to save you?” I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. Ricky finally stomped out, slamming the door hard enough to make the windows rattle. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and locked it behind him, securing the deadbolt with a metallic click that felt almost ceremonial.

An hour later, my phone started vibrating non-stop. Screenshots flooded in from mutual acquaintances, concerned DMs, the slow, sickening unraveling of my online reputation playing out in real time. Ricky had uploaded edited videos, grainy clips of me crying during the baby shower, distorted audio of me snapping under the pressure of betrayal. He painted me as an unhinged, unstable, soon-to-be mother trying to destroy the family for selfish reasons. “You don’t abandon blood,” one post said. “Prayers for Ricky,” another added. My stomach twisted as I scrolled. Friends I’d trusted hesitated, unfollowed, disappeared like mist under the sun. Every comment, every click chipped away at the image I’d fought to rebuild. I knew better than to fight emotions with more emotions. I closed the apps and picked up my phone with steady hands. “Hi, it’s Skyler,” I said when my lawyer picked up. “We need to file for a restraining order and a defamation suit.” He didn’t ask questions, just said, “Come by tomorrow morning.” I stared at the reflection of my face in the darkened window, the outline of someone who once believed love could conquer betrayal. Now she knew better. Late into the night, as the house hushed into uneasy silence, I caught movement outside. My heart jerked and I slipped to the side of the curtain. Ricky’s car sat at the curb, headlights dark, engine running, waiting. I tightened my grip on my phone, ready to dial the police with one hand, my other resting lightly over the swell of my belly. This time I wouldn’t be the one running scared.

Victory and Ongoing Vigilance

The courtroom buzzed low with murmurs, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing even louder inside my skull. My fingers clutched the folder of evidence like it was a life raft. Across the room, Ricky lounged in his chair, smug, tapping his foot against the linoleum floor like he already knew the outcome. The bailiff called my name and my lawyer nodded. I stood, walking toward the bench with legs that felt carved from stone but moved with an iron will. I presented the evidence first: screenshots, emails, videos carefully cataloged. Every whisper, every lie Ricky had spun online was now printed and pinned under the judge’s stern gaze. When it was Ricky’s turn, he smirked and leaned forward with a casual air of false concern. “Your honor,” he began, voice syrupy. “Skyler’s struggling mentally. It’s been going on for years. We’re all just worried about the baby.” I clenched my jaw so hard it ached. “Do you have proof of these claims?” the judge asked coolly. Ricky stumbled, waving vague gestures. “Everyone knows,” he said. “She’s always been a little unstable.” My lawyer calmly passed another folder to the clerk. Inside: medical records, business contracts, letters of commendation, every piece of my life proving not just stability but resilience. The judge’s gaze sharpened. “Speculation isn’t evidence, Mr. Cole.” The room shifted, airless, tense, and then the door creaked open. Marcy Sanders, an old family friend, walked in, purposeful and unsmiling. She raised her hand, requesting to be heard. “Permission granted.” “I’ve known Skylar since she was born,” Marcy said, voice ringing clear. “And I also know Ricky’s pattern of manipulation. He started rumors about his own coach in high school just to dodge expulsion, lied to teachers, lied to his own friends. He’s been doing this long before today.” A low gasp rippled through the small gallery. Wanda, sitting stiff and silent behind Ricky, turned an alarming shade of red. My hands shook, but not from fear, from vindication. The judge leaned back, steepling his fingers. “I have heard enough.”

Twenty minutes later, the verdict rang out: Eviction granted, restraining order approved. Immediate removal. No contact. Ricky’s expression curdled like spoiled milk. I walked out without a backward glance, the courthouse doors swinging wide into a clear blue afternoon. I inhaled the air like it was brand new, like it could rebuild broken things. At home, I allowed myself a smile, small but real. As I changed into pajamas and tucked myself into the couch, I cradled the ultrasound photo of Emma against my chest, the thrum of her existence, the only rhythm that mattered now. The phone buzzed. Unknown number. I opened the message. You may have won the battle, but the war isn’t over. The chill ran down my spine like an old familiar friend. I gripped Emma’s picture tighter. They could try whatever they wanted. I wasn’t going anywhere.

The house hummed with a silence that no longer crushed me. It wrapped around Emma and me like a soft quilt, a kind of peace I had never thought possible. I traced my fingers across the windowsill, sunlight streaming through, and for once the emptiness felt like freedom, not abandonment. Emma cooed from her bassinet, tiny fists batting the air as if she were greeting the very life ahead of her. I smiled, a real full smile. It had taken everything to get here, but I had carved out a corner of the world just for us. Clarissa visited in the afternoon sometimes, bringing coffee and stories from the town I was slowly relearning to trust. One afternoon, as we sat on the porch watching Emma nap, she hesitated before speaking. “You heard about Ricky?” she asked, voice low. I nodded. Rumors traveled fast here. He was crashing on couches, burning bridges wherever he landed. No job, no stability, no pity left to collect. “And your mom,” Clarissa added. I shrugged. Wanda was with some distant cousin across the state, clinging to bitterness like a life raft. Not once had she tried to call. Not once had I felt tempted to pick up the phone. The sadness was there, a quiet echo. But it didn’t own me anymore. Instead, I poured myself into my business. Clients returned. New ones came. Word of mouth grew. And with it my independence. I even spoke at a community event last weekend, standing behind a simple wooden podium, Emma gurgling softly in Clarissa’s arms as I said: “Choosing yourself isn’t selfish, it’s survival.” After the applause faded, a woman came up to me, eyes brimming with tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I needed to hear that.” Maybe I had needed to hear it, too.

Today, the air smelled of rain and fresh cut grass as I pushed Emma’s stroller through the park. I passed families picnicking, children shrieking with laughter, teenagers draped across benches like drowsy cats. Life pulsed around us, messy and imperfect and stubbornly beautiful. Sixteen years ago, a part of me would have begged to belong to scenes like these. Today, I realized I already did. On my own terms, I adjusted Emma’s blanket, tucking it securely under her chin. The late afternoon light slanted gold across her cheeks. That was when I noticed it. Across the street, a figure stood half shrouded by a tree watching us, not moving, just there. My heart tightened, but my hands didn’t shake. I slid my fingers casually into my pocket, wrapping them around my phone. I clutched my phone tighter, ready for anything because this time I wouldn’t be blindsided. Fan Koi. Looking back, I realized survival isn’t just about enduring pain. It’s about choosing to step out of its shadow. I used to believe that loyalty meant sacrificing myself for people who never chose me back. But healing taught me a different truth. You are allowed to protect your peace. You are allowed to walk away. And sometimes strength looks like quiet, steady steps into a future no one else believes you deserve except you. If there’s one thing I hope you carry with you, it’s this: Your worth is not tied to how much you endure for others. It’s in how fiercely you love yourself and the life you are building.