When I was 16, I wore a brown Starbucks apron at dawn. Mom used to text me: “Thanks, honey. Avery needs piano lessons.” Or: “She has a field trip, just a little extra.” The first time she said, “You’re our pride,” I believed her. I thought love sounded like appreciation. Now I know it sounded like obligation.

When I started graduate school, I told myself this degree would change everything. That if I accomplished enough, maybe she’d see me—not as the backup plan, not as the steady paycheck disguised as a daughter—but as her equal.

May be an image of studying, standing, hallway and text