I raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of my wine.

— Traditional? I’ve already given your sister forty thousand dollars. I was about to send another sixty. That isn’t tradition, Michael. That’s a buyout.

He stopped pacing, his body freezing mid-stride.

— Wait. You were sending another sixty thousand?

— Was, I corrected him. — But not anymore.

The color drained from Michael’s face.

— Mom, they were counting on that money. The venue, the caterer, the…

— Not my problem any longer, I said, my tone even and cool.

His voice rose, laced with disbelief.

— Of course it’s your problem! She’s your daughter!

— And I am her mother, I responded quietly, setting my glass down. — A mother who was instructed to stay home and watch her child’s wedding on a computer screen.

He threw his hands up in exasperation, his face flush with anger.

— You always have to make everything about you!

And there it was. That was the line. The one that severed the final thread of my obligation.

— Get out of my house.

— What?

— You heard me, Michael. Get out.

— Mom, you can’t be serious.

— I have given everything I have to give, I said, my voice soft but unyielding. — I am done being cast as the villain in a story I wrote with nothing but love. Now, please leave.

Michael stared at me for a long moment, his expression a mixture of shock and anger. Then, he turned without another word and walked out. The front door clicked shut behind him, a quiet sound that echoed through the house with the force of a slam.

I stood alone in the center of my living room, my heart hammering against my ribs, and was struck by a startling realization. I didn’t feel a trace of guilt. I felt free.

The following morning, I awoke to forty-three missed calls and a relentless stream of frantic messages from Jessica. The initial texts were steeped in passive-aggressive guilt. Mom, we need to talk. Why are you doing this? This is incredibly childish.

Then, as the morning wore on, the tone shifted dramatically to panic. The venue just called. The payment didn’t go through. We’re going to lose the reservation if we don’t pay them by tomorrow. Brandon’s parents are furious. They said this proves they were right about you all along.

At 3:24 a.m., a single, plaintive text arrived. I don’t understand why you’re doing this to me.

I smiled as I sipped my morning coffee. Of course she didn’t understand. Jessica had spent her entire life wrapped in the safety net of my sacrifices, a fabric so tightly woven into her reality that she never thought to question its origins. The comfort, the security, the unwavering stability—she simply presumed it would always be there. That I would always be there. But not this time.

Later that morning, as I was reviewing legal contracts at my desk, a new email notification popped up. The subject line was a desperate plea: Please don’t ruin my wedding.

I opened it, expecting more of the same.

Mom, she began. I know you’re upset about the livestream situation, but this is an extreme reaction. We have lost the venue deposit. If we don’t pay the remaining balance by the end of the day, Paris time, the caterer is going to walk. Brandon’s parents are beyond upset. They’re saying this just confirms that you can’t be reasoned with. Please, don’t do this. We can talk about you attending the ceremony, but we need the funds first.