You know, there are moments in life that punch you in the gut and leave you gasping for air. For me, one of those moments was watching my sister, Cassandra, and our mother, Eleanor, strut into the housewarming party for my new $960,000 home. A home that represented every late night, every sacrifice, every ounce of hustle I poured into building my tech company. And yet the knot in my stomach tightened because I recognized that look in their eyes—the same look I saw when I was eighteen, the night my entire world shattered.
Growing up in Boston, our family seemed pretty normal from the outside. Dad worked in finance, Mom ran a boutique, there were two daughters and even a golden retriever named Rusty. But appearances can be deceiving. When I was twelve, the cracks began to show. Dad moved out. The divorce itself wasn’t dramatic, but what followed set the stage for years of pure dysfunction.
