I drove home in a daze, tears blurring my vision. For years, I’d been making excuses for her behavior: She was under stress. She came from a different generation. She just needed time to warm up to me. I’d swallowed her snide remarks, pretended not to notice when she “forgot” to include me in family photos, and all the while, I’d been helping them financially, going without so they could have more.

My gaze fell on my checkbook. The mortgage payment for their house was due next week. I’d already written the check. I picked it up, staring at the amount: $2,100, nearly half my monthly income. With trembling fingers, I tore it in half. Then I called the bank.

“Are you sure, Mrs. Harrison?” the representative asked. “This is a recurring payment you’ve been making for over a year.”