Her words landed like stones, but I didn’t let it show. I adjusted my purse strap and smiled. “Yes. Everyone needs space.”

That night, I sat at the dining table with only the corner lamp on. I opened my bank account again. The $3,800 cabin deposit sat near the top. Below it, a long trail of forgotten generosity: $200 for the twins’ daycare tuition last winter, $600 for Clara’s dental work, $4,000 the summer Nolan was furloughed. Line after line of quiet rescue. I opened an old spreadsheet I had once used to balance their needs with mine. The file hadn’t been touched in months; I’d stopped keeping track. Somewhere along the way, the giving had become routine, automatic—expected.

I minimized the screen and stared at the wall. I had always been the steady hand, the fallback, the one who showed up quietly and never asked to be seen. It was easier that way: fewer fights, less guilt. But this wasn’t silence anymore. It was erasure.