Growing up, I was never enough for my mother. She blamed me for my father leaving and treated me like a burden, while my younger sister Ann was her perfect child. When I moved back in with my mother to save for a home with my husband Peter, she treated me like unpaid help while Ann enjoyed a carefree life. I endured it—until Ann’s birthday party, when my mother humiliated me in front of everyone, waving an old pregnancy test and accusing me of being a disgrace. That night, she threw me out.

Peter’s parents took us in, and weeks later I returned for my belongings. At the door, I overheard my mother confronting Ann—it was her pregnancy test all along. Ann admitted she stayed silent while I was shamed and kicked out. The truth eventually spread through the neighborhood, tarnishing my mother’s image, but she never apologized.

For the first time, I realized I didn’t need her approval. I had people who loved me—Peter, his family, and friends—who made me feel valued without conditions. I stopped waiting for her to change and let go of the hope she’d ever be the mother I needed.

Peter and I moved into our own small apartment. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, and it felt more like home than my mother’s house ever had. I didn’t look back, and I never felt guilty for leaving.