“I regret giving birth to you.” That was the last thing my mother ever said to me. After I took back the $15,000 birthday gift and refused to pay the $4,860 bill for the party. After hearing those words, I cut ties with them. Was I wrong for doing that? Let me tell you the whole story and you can decide for yourself. Hello everyone. My name is Finn and I’m 34 years old. I currently live in Silver Lake, Los Angeles, and work as a forensic pathologist at the county medical examiner’s office. It’s not a job many people would choose, but I picked it because it suits me. Quiet, meticulous, and best of all, no one expects a long explanation when they ask what I do. My life now is peaceful. I used to have a happy family, dinners together, holidays spent with my parents, warm gatherings. But one rainy night a year ago, everything changed. I lost my family. Not because they passed away, but because of a family drama I never imagined I’d be the main character in.
A Birthday Gone Wrong
That day was my mom, Paty’s 56th birthday. After finishing an emergency autopsy case from a severe car accident, I realized I was 10 minutes late to the dinner party at the restaurant she had told me about in advance. I quickly sent a message in our family group chat saying I was stuck in traffic due to the heavy rain and and would be there in 15 minutes. I also sent a separate message to my mom apologizing. No one replied.
The gift I had prepared a week earlier sat on the passenger seat beside me. I remembered earlier that year when we passed by a jewelry counter in Glendale. My mom paused for a few seconds, pointed at a sapphire pendant necklace, and jokingly said, “I’ll probably never get to wear something like that.” She didn’t know I remembered that moment and that I searched high and low for something similar. But instead of the synthetic stone in the display, I chose diamonds. It cost nearly 2 months of my salary. I did not want to impress her, but I thought that going the extra mile would be worth it if I could surprise her and make her happy. That was how I expressed love for the woman who gave birth to me. When I bought that necklace, I had a straightforward wish: to show up at the party, give her the gift, wish her a happy birthday, and spend a warm evening with my family. But I never imagined that night would be the last time I called them my family.
When I walked into the restaurant, the birthday party had been going on for 30 minutes. The place buzzed with conversation. Warm yellow lights casting a soft glow on familiar faces. The smell of grilled meat, perfume, and the clinking of glasses created a cozy atmosphere. The moment my sister Marissa saw me at the door, she raised her voice in a mocking tone and roared, “Well, look who finally made it. I guess work matters more than Mom’s birthday now.” After she said that, I felt everyone turn to look at me: my aunts, uncles, and a few cousins. No one said a word. They just stared, waiting to see what I would do. I kept my breath steady beneath those awkward stares. It was my mom’s birthday, and I didn’t want to embarrass her. In the calmest voice I could manage, I said, “Sorry, I’m late.” Then I walked over to where she was sitting and gently said, “Happy birthday, Mom.”
Right after that, my mom looked up, gave a slight nod, and offered a faint smile like she was accepting my words out of politeness. A few seconds later, I pulled a carefully wrapped gift box from my coat pocket and placed it in front of her. “I hope you’ll like this,” I said. She took the box and opened it right away. Inside, nestled in dark blue velvet, was a diamond necklace. The stones were small but beautifully arranged, elegant, not flashy. For a brief moment, I saw her eyes light up. A hint of surprise flickered across her face, then vanished. She picked up the necklace, turned it over in her hands, nodded, and said quietly, “It’s beautiful.” I let out a small breath. A wave of relief passed through me. At that moment, I believed everything was okay. But less than a minute later, just as I was pulling out a chair to sit down, I noticed the necklace was now in Marissa’s hands. She held it up to the light, her eyes gleaming with obvious delight. I looked over at my mom, confused, and asked in a low voice, “Why is Marissa holding it? I gave it to you.”
Without hesitation, Paty replied coldly, “Your sister suits it better.” Then she turned to the relatives nearby and added jokingly, “Would have been better if he just gave cash like every other year. What’s the point of giving a cheap necklace like this?” Laughter bubbled up from around the table. I couldn’t tell if it was out of politeness or if they found it funny, but to me, the sound rang in my ears. My face burned. My collar suddenly felt tight. In that moment, I realized I had just been humiliated openly. Not just the gift I had carefully chosen, but the sincerity behind it had been dismissed as if it meant nothing. A few seconds later, I stood up and walked over to Marissa. I snatched the necklace from her hand, then pulled a folded paper from my pocket. The receipt still smelled like fresh ink and clearly showed the price: $15,000. I held it up before my mom and unfolded it so she could see the number. Then I turned and showed it to the rest of the table. The room fell silent. Everyone stared at me. A few jaws dropped, shocked that something so small could cost that much. My mom froze for a moment, then rushed forward, her voice stammering, “Let me… let me see that again. I didn’t know it was that expensive.”
Marissa came after her, her face completely changed, pleading, “I’m sorry, I was kidding earlier. Can you please give the necklace back to Mom?” But I took a step back, held the necklace tightly, and said each word clearly, “I’m not joking. This gift is no longer for her, and don’t expect anything else from me ever again.” With that, I turned and walked straight out of the restaurant. Behind me were the sounds of chairs scraping, voices calling after me, and whispers fading with every step I took. As I drove home in silence that rainy night, I knew something had slipped away from me forever.
The Unraveling of Family Ties
When I entered my apartment, I rushed to check my phone. It hadn’t stopped buzzing since I left the restaurant. I didn’t even need to look to know what was waiting for me behind those notifications. After taking off my rain-soaked coat a few seconds later, I unlocked the screen. Messages flooded in, so many that I felt as if I’d waited any longer, the phone might have exploded trying to hold them all. In the family group chat, Marissa was the first to speak up. She said I had embarrassed the whole family, that I thought having money meant I could do whatever I wanted. My mother said she didn’t understand how she could have given birth to someone like me. Then she told the group how I disrespected her, was cold-hearted, and did something unforgivable. Finally, right before I was removed from the chat, my mom left one last message with just my name: “Finn, I regret giving birth to you.” In that moment, I gripped my phone tightly, my whole body burning with anger. There weren’t any clear thoughts running through my mind, just a deep, heavy sense of betrayal that settled in stronger than ever before.
The phone rang again just minutes after I was removed from the chat. Lucille’s name appeared on the screen—my mom’s younger sister. After a few rings, I decided to answer. Without greeting her, I spoke first, my voice tight. “If you’re calling to scold me, I don’t want to hear it.” There was a brief pause on the other end. Then she replied slow and steady. “I’m not calling to scold you. I just wanted to ask, ‘Are you okay?'” That question stopped me in my tracks, not because I was overwhelmed, but because it was so simple and it had been so long since anyone asked me that. A few seconds later, she continued, her voice still calm. “After you left, your mom ordered the most expensive wine on the menu. She told the table you’d be covering the whole bill. I think you might end up being charged for tonight. You should check.” I sat there quietly after her warning. Everything from that evening began to rearrange in my mind with new clarity. The necklace being passed around, the jokes at the table, my mother’s cold stare when I asked if she was joking. None of it felt random anymore. It was a clear picture now and I was right in the center of it, being used. Before we ended the call, I apologized to my aunt for how I spoke earlier and thanked her for calling and telling me. Then I sat in silence for a long time, thinking about everything that had happened and thinking about my mother.
The Unacknowledged Son
A memory came to mind from a few months ago during a scene investigation with my forensics team. We were working on an unexplained death at a high-rise in Westlake. I had just finished the exam and was about to leave, still peeling off my bloodstained gloves, when I saw my mother on the other side of the corridor. She was with two friends, both dressed in workout clothes. She didn’t see me. One pointed in my direction and asked, “Is that guy a forensic tech? He looks just like Finn.” My mom immediately shook her head and quickly pulled her friends away, before I could even say hello. At the time, I didn’t blame her. I knew my job wasn’t easy for people to accept. No one wants to talk about corpses over brunch. And no one wants their child standing in the middle of crime scene tape and ambulances. But the whole ride home that day, one question stayed in my head. Why didn’t she acknowledge me even with just one sentence? I chose this profession because it suited me. It gave me freedom. I didn’t have to sit in an office every day. It paid me close to $240,000 a year, enough to support myself and help my mom whenever she needed it. Every month, the money I sent always arrived. Sometimes she’d even text to ask for a little extra during the holidays. Not once did she turn down the money. And after that birthday dinner, after everything that happened, I finally realized something. My existence had never been a source of pride to my mother. Maybe she still called me her son only because I still sent her money when she needed it. That night, something inside me broke.
The Final Straw
The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual. The rain from the night before had stopped, leaving my apartment wrapped in its usual quiet. I made a cup of coffee and checked my phone for emails. Buried among hospital alerts and spam, one subject line made me stop: “Draft invoice Paty Wilson’s birthday dinner.” I immediately opened the email and tapped on the attached PDF. The number appeared almost instantly: $4,860. I stared at it. My first reaction wasn’t anger. It was confusion. Every item was listed in precise detail: wine, main courses, desserts, service fees, and finally the tip. All of it totaled up, and at the bottom it read, “Unpaid. Will be charged to the card on file within 24 hours.”
I called the restaurant right away. The staff member’s voice was polite but firm. “The reservation was made under Miss Paty’s email, but the deposit card belongs to a Mr. Finn, according to our system. Unless we hear otherwise, that’s the card we’ll charge.” I hung up and dialed my mom. She picked up after the third ring, her tone as casual as ever. So, she said, “You planning to give me that necklace back?” Trying to keep my voice steady, I asked, “Why did you use my card to deposit at the restaurant?” There was a pause. Then she replied, “Pay for the dinner if you’re not giving me the necklace. You’re my son. What’s wrong with that?” And with that, she hung up just like that, as if talking to me was an inconvenience. In that moment, I felt something inside me fall even further. I realized then that the birthday dinner wasn’t about reconnecting, sharing, or making peace. To my mother, it was a pre-planned expense. And my role in it, so simple, so ruthless, was to show up and pay. Once I saw it for what it was, I wondered how often this had happened before without noticing. She always called to check in only to ask for help with something by the end. The times Marissa visited only to leave behind bills needing support. After everything, I just felt stupid. Right after that call, I knew I had to do something next. Not to win, not to prove a point, but to clarify one thing to my mother and Marissa: I’m not a toy and I’m not some walking ATM ready to dispense money whenever it’s convenient for them.
I sat down in front of my computer and opened my banking dashboard. This time, I didn’t just skim like I usually did. I went line by line, carefully reviewing every transaction. There it was. The cost of their Europe trip, which I had paid for entirely. The spa subscription still auto-renewing every month. My mom asked me to cover the hospital bills during my workday. Her monthly interest payments to the bank. It is still active on my card as if it were my obligation. Once I’d reviewed everything, I started cutting one by one. The spa subscription cancelled, the recurring bank loan payments removed. Every single expense tied to my mom or Marissa’s personal life. I shut it all down. I didn’t know how they’d react. I only knew that if I didn’t do this now, I’d keep spinning in a cycle I never agreed to be part of in the first place. When I reopened the birthday dinner invoice, I stared at that $4,860 without blinking. Not because it was a considerable amount, but because now I see what it represents. I decided not to pay it. After everything, I didn’t need an apology. I didn’t need them to understand. I just needed to draw a line for myself.
The next morning, my phone rang while I was having breakfast in my apartment. My mother’s name lit up on the screen. I didn’t need to guess why she was calling. Since I cut off all financial support, I’ve been expecting this moment. I answered after a few rings. Before I could say anything, she snapped, her voice sharp, each word biting. “The spa card isn’t working today. What did you do?” As if it were the most obvious thing in the world, I replied, “I canceled it. The spa, the bank loan payments, everything.” There was a pause on the other end. I could hear her breathing pick up. Then she came back more forceful. “I’ve been going to that spa for almost 2 years. So, you wake up one morning and decide to cut everything off? What’s that supposed to mean?” I held the phone tightly, my chest hollow. I didn’t know what to say to that tone. Didn’t even know what part of it I should respond to. Before I could speak, her voice softened. She tried to coax me like she was dialing everything back to negotiate. “You’re probably still upset about that night, but taking back the necklace and cutting everything. That’s too much.” When I heard that sugary tone, I knew exactly what she was trying to do. She still saw me as a boy who would eventually fall in line. Whether I was 20 or 30, she needed to be in control. She wanted to win. But this time, I couldn’t give in. As I wrestled with that thought, she hit me with another line. Sharper this time. “And what about the birthday dinner bill? Who do you think is going to pay for that? The restaurant’s been calling.” That question hit like a slap. A final clear sign. I responded slowly. Each word measured, “I’m not paying it.” The moment I said it, she exploded on the other end. “You’re refusing? You took the gift back and are refusing to pay!” And just like in the group chat, before hanging up, she left me with the exact final words: “I regret giving birth to you.” After the call, I sat there feeling like something had stabbed me in the chest. But this time, I didn’t bow my head. I asked myself, “Is love supposed to be one-sided? Does love mean I’m expected to pay for everything without question, without a voice, without the right to choose?” In the end, after everything, things truly had changed.
Confrontation and Separation
About 2 hours later, my phone buzzed again. This time, it was a message from Marissa flashing across the screen. She scolded me in it and said I’d made our mother cry all morning, that I no longer cared about her. I embarrassed her in front of the family, that I only ever thought about myself. I stared at the words for a while. Then I deleted the message and blocked her contact. I decided I didn’t need to explain anything. Not to her anymore. I just needed to keep everything quiet inside my head.
But it didn’t stop there. Not even 30 minutes later, the doorbell rang. When I checked the front camera, there she was: Marissa standing right up against the glass. Her lips pressed tight, eyes fixed directly into the lens. A few seconds later, I opened the door just slightly, enough for us to see each other. She stepped up immediately, voice sharp and heavy. “You planning to hide forever?” Then she moved in closer, standing between the door and the frame. Her voice dropped lower now, as if every word was being held back by tears that hadn’t yet fallen. “You cut everything. The spa, the bank. Mom doesn’t even know what to tell her friends. Did you even think about her?” Listening to that nonsense, I kept one hand on the edge of the door and replied, my voice low and firm, each word cutting clean, “Get out of my house.” Then I slammed the door shut, not out of anger, but sheer disgust because of what she’d done. Coming all the way here to confront me like I was responsible for everything, as if I was supposed to carry the weight of the entire family. And then falling apart the moment I chose to step away from it—it was beyond contempt.
After blocking all contact from my mother and sister, I thought it was over. But two days later, just as I was changing out of my lab coat after a morning shift, a night shift nurse left me a message. Someone from my family had come looking for me. My mother and Marissa had shown up at my workplace. Unannounced, they were standing in the reception area of the administrative wing, just outside the waiting room for families. A security guard had already been called from the upper hallway. Their raised voices at the front desk had started drawing attention from nearby patients. Marissa demanded to see me, yelling that I couldn’t hide forever. My mom had taken a seat and declared she’d wait all day if she had to because “a son can’t treat his mother like a stranger.”
When I stepped out of the elevator, their eyes locked onto me. Marissa immediately stood up and took a few steps forward. She didn’t call my name. She just turned to the people nearby and roared, “This is the forensic doctor! That’s my mother’s son, my brother, and he’s planning to abandon his whole family!” In that moment, I stood quietly at the line between the hallway and the reception area, waiting for them to finish whatever they needed to say. Inside, no more words were left to describe how empty I felt. A security officer asked softly if I wanted them to step in. I nodded. A few minutes later, both women left the hospital, escorted toward the back parking lot as security had requested. No one was forced out, but they had to go because this was not a place for emotional performances that had run far too long. After they left, instead of heading back inside, I followed them to the bench area behind the admin wing, right by the parking lot, quiet and deserted this time of day. There, the three of us, who once called each other family, stood facing one another for the last time, to confront whatever unfinished truth still lingered, to untangle the final knots.
The moment my mother saw me approaching, something inside her snapped, anger long suppressed now erupting. She pointed straight at me and shouted, “I raised you and now you treat your mother like trash!” I just looked at her, the woman I once saw as a treasure, now standing before me like a stranger I barely recognized. Then I said, clear and steady, “You raised me? You raised me, but I had to pay my college tuition. You raised me but left me to carry my student debt and the mortgage on your house. You and Marissa went on vacations I paid for without even telling me. I never brought any of that up because I thought helping family shouldn’t come with conditions. But if all that gave you the right to treat me like a walking wallet, then no, that’s not love. That’s not family.” My words landed like a blow. She froze for a second, her eyes wide in disbelief. Then she stepped forward, her voice trembling with fury. “So now you’re counting every penny with your mother? You make over 200 grand a year and are bitter about a few thousand? Pathetic!”
I took a deep breath. And all the things I’d buried. Every silence I kept in the name of peace. Every step I took backward to avoid conflict started rising, finally taking form. I said slowly, “When you had your heart surgery, I was the one who brought you into pre-op. I called the surgeon. I waited while you signed the consent forms.” And yet in the medical proxy paperwork, you left my name out of every section. Marissa signed everything. I had no access, no authority, nothing. I paused for a moment, then asked, my voice low, each word pressed down. “Why? Because you’re ashamed I’m a forensic pathologist? Or because you don’t think I deserve to be by your side when it matters most?” Just as I finished, Marissa stepped in between us, her voice biting. “Someone as cold as you knows how to say that.” I didn’t hesitate. “From now on, I’m living my life. Don’t come near me again.”
I turned to leave, but Marissa lunged forward and shoved me hard enough to make me stumble back a few steps across the cold tiles. And just like that, an old memory came flooding back. The day my parents divorced, my mother had asked me to sign a document giving her a bigger share of the assets. I refused. I said our father deserved a fair split, too. She was furious. Marissa treated me like a traitor. I remembered the day I went to the lawyer’s office with my dad to finalize the division. Marissa showed up unexpectedly. She didn’t even say hello. She grabbed my arm, dragged me into the hallway, and shoved me right in front of the receptionist. With fire in her eyes, she spat, “You bastard.” I had asked her calmly, “Are you insulting Mom? Because if I’m a bastard, it means she cheated to have me.” She went silent. That push left a bruise on my shoulder that lasted a week. And the words never taken back, not once. She did it again in the hospital courtyard. Still the same Marissa, still treating me like an outsider in my bloodline, but this time I was ready.
Two officers quickly approached from behind. I had already asked the hospital receptionist to call them 10 minutes earlier when I quietly followed my mother and Marissa outside. I knew this would happen. I knew that without clear limits, they’d come back repeatedly. Same tactics, new scars. One officer stepped forward and said, firm but composed. “Step back. Please maintain your distance.” The second approached me, eyeing my expression carefully before asking quietly, “You okay, Dr. Finn?” I gave a slight nod, my eyes locked on the two women before me, now bathed in the slanting afternoon light. Then I said, calm and direct. “If either of you comes to my home or this hospital again, I’ll file for a restraining order.” Marissa let out a sharp, bitter laugh and shouted at the officer, “I dare him!” My mother didn’t move. She just stared into the empty courtyard, fingers gripping her purse strap tightly, knuckles pale, holding herself together as if something inside her had collapsed. After a brief exchange, the officers escorted them off hospital grounds and back toward the station to document the incident. They didn’t resist, but every step they took was heavy, as if each one dragged behind it something left unsaid. I stood there watching the two people I once called family disappear beyond the edge of the parking lot. In my hand was a file of autopsy paperwork still waiting for a signature. But that morning, the weight in my chest wasn’t from someone’s death. It was from knowing I had just buried something else.
New Chapter, New Life
That same afternoon, I filed for a restraining order at the county courthouse. It was processed within 3 days. The order lasts 6 months. They’re not allowed to call, text, send letters, or approach me in any form. The distance is 300 ft from my home to the hospital. And I know without a doubt this is my final boundary. Now that it’s in place, I won’t let it bend, not even once.
A few weeks after the incident at the hospital, I drove nearly 2 hours to a small coastal town where my father had been living since the divorce. Manuel, my dad, had always been a quiet man. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t show affection openly. What he wanted to say often slipped out through how he sat, through a quiet nod, through the way he held a beer can without gripping it too tightly. When he filed for divorce 3 years ago, it shook the entire family. No one saw it coming. My mother was furious. Marissa took it as betrayal. She always believed no one had the right to walk away from our mother. She saw herself as a model of loyalty, which probably explains why even pushing 40, she never wanted a family. As for me, I stayed silent. I didn’t ask. I didn’t react. When I arrived, my dad was hunched over, mending a fishing net beside his boat. He looked up, gave a slight nod, and said, “Beer is in the cooler. Help yourself.” We sat on wooden chairs facing the sea. A few minutes later, we didn’t speak at first. We took slow sips of beer, letting the salty breeze soak our sleeves. Then he told me if he had stayed in that house with my mother any longer, he would have lost himself completely. That house, that marriage prolonged endurance. It wasn’t living anymore. It was something that wore him down day by day. I remember his eyes as he said it. After I shared everything that had happened, he didn’t try to comfort me. He didn’t give advice. Just looked at me like someone who had once crossed deep waters and knew firsthand that the bottom held nothing but cold and suffocating silence. He didn’t call me strong. He didn’t say I was right. But in how he lightly touched my shoulder as he stood up, I knew he saw me. Not as a son, but as a man trying to stand tall on his patch of ground. Maybe at that moment, I began to understand something. Being a child doesn’t mean enduring everything. Especially when the people who brought you into this world no longer see you as their own. About 4 hours later, I left just as dusk settled in. The shoreline lights had flickered on, casting broken reflections across the water. I didn’t hug him goodbye, but as I walked to my car, I felt for the first time in years that someone had truly seen me. And at that moment, that was enough.
After visiting my father by the coast, my life slowly settled into a new rhythm. I still worked at the county hospital, still took the occasional night shift, and in my free time, I started seeing a few people seriously, people I could imagine a future with. Now and then I drive out to the bay to sit with my dad on his boat or share a few beers at sunset. Life became so quiet that for a moment I truly believed I’d escaped the old cycle. I used to think that if I was clear and firm enough, I could keep my distance from my mother and Marissa. I thought a six-month restraining order would make them realize that some boundaries once crossed couldn’t be undone. But just one month after the order expired, they came back. And this time, in a way I never could have imagined.
The Final Invasion
It was a late weeknight. I had just finished a 12-hour shift. As the elevator doors opened onto my floor, I stepped into the hallway of my apartment building, thinking only of a cold meal and a deep sleep. As I slid my key into the lock, something felt off. The key turned too easily. The door pushed open with barely a nudge. The lights were on inside. A strange perfume scent hit me—something unfamiliar, something I had never allowed into the space. I stepped through the threshold and froze. There she was, my mother, Paty, sitting upright on my sofa, eyes fixed on the door. Marissa leaned against the dining table, arms crossed, waiting for a reaction she already expected. They’d let themselves in with the spare key I once gave my mother and had forgotten about.
After a few seconds of studying myself, I asked, voice dry and sharp, “What are you doing here?” My mother looked up, her voice worn and low. “The house was repossessed. We’ve got nowhere else to go. I’m begging you. Just let us stay for a few months.” I scanned the room. A glass was already filled with water. Her coat lay over the chair where I usually read. Minor quiet invasions, each one chipping away at the place I called safe. I pulled my phone from my coat pocket and held it up. “Leave or I’m calling the police.” My mother shot up quickly, stepping toward me and grabbing the phone. Her voice softened, almost coaxing. “Don’t do this. This is your home and mine, too.” Without a word, I snatched the phone back fast, firm. She flinched but didn’t resist. I walked toward the bedroom. Two suitcases leaned neatly against the wall. Seeing their luggage in my space felt like a hand had reached inside me and pulled at the last of my patience. One by one, I picked them up and tossed them into the hallway, not violently, but loud enough for every thud to echo off the cold tile. I followed with coats, bags, and every personal item they’d brought into my home. As I pushed the pile toward the door, I shouted, “This isn’t your place.” My mother stood frozen. Then her face darkened and she snapped, “You’re just like your father. Cold, selfish, always about yourself.” A few seconds later, Marissa started crying. Her voice cracked through the silence that had only ever known peace. “You want Mom on the street? She’s just gotten sick. Do you even think about anyone but yourself?” But I didn’t second guess. I unlocked my phone, dialed 911, and calmly reported a home intrusion. I didn’t explain much. I gave the address and waited.
A few minutes later, two officers knocked on the door. After verifying ownership and asking a few questions, they stepped inside. By then, Marissa had collapsed dramatically onto the floor, curled up like she was in the middle of a seizure. One officer crouched to check her pulse, then said firmly, “If you don’t cooperate, we’ll have to use force.” Right then, Marissa opened her eyes, clear, focused. Her voice came out in a whisper, “I’m not feeling well.” But the moment the officer reached for his radio, she suddenly sat up straight on the couch, perfectly fine. The police wrote up a report and detained both my mother and Marissa for disturbing the peace and unlawful entry. After their second break-in, I didn’t wait. I filed for a permanent restraining order. The court approved it. From that day forward, all contact has been severed by law. And now, a year after the permanent restraining order was granted, I’ve heard that my mother and sister have moved on to a different chapter of their lives. They relocated to another state, Marissa now sells handmade decorations online, and my mother lives with her in a rented home on the outskirts of town. Everything I know comes through my aunt, Lucille, and whenever she shares these updates, she chooses her words carefully, as if she’s preserving something fragile from a life we once shared under the same roof. As for me, I still live in my small apartment in Silver Lake. Every morning, I make coffee with the same old machine, fold my sheets just how I like, and set out an extra mug for the woman I love. She’s a nurse. We met 9 months ago during an emergency shift. Since that night, she’s been here waiting for me to come home. The apartment that used to be a place of silence now carries the sound of running water, soft music from the kitchen, and her voice as she tells me about the day.