Halfway home, Willa’s small voice pierced the silence. “Mommy, is it because my first daddy went to heaven? Is that why Grandma doesn’t love me?”
The question shattered the last remaining pieces inside my chest. “Denton, pull over,” I choked out.
He stopped the car instantly on the shoulder. I unbuckled my seatbelt and scrambled into the back seat next to Willa. I took her face gently in my hands, forcing her to look into my eyes.
“Listen to me, baby. You did nothing wrong, absolutely nothing. You are perfect exactly as you are. You are kind and smart and wonderful, and anyone who doesn’t see that is the one with the problem, not you. Never you.”
Willa sniffled. “Then why did Grandma write that note? Why didn’t I get the same as everybody else?”
I pulled her into a tight embrace. “Because Grandma made a terrible choice, a mean, unfair choice, and it has nothing to do with who you are. It’s about who she is. Do you understand?” She nodded against my shoulder, but I knew she wasn’t truly convinced. How could she be? She had just been publicly humiliated by the people who were supposed to love her unconditionally. Words were useless now. Only action could fix this.
“I promise you, sweetheart,” I whispered, kissing the top of her head. “Mommy is going to make this right.”
That evening, after Willa had finally cried herself to sleep with Buttons tucked under her arm, Denton and I sat at the kitchen table. The Christmas tree lights blinked softly, mocking the ruined spirit of the holiday.
“What are you thinking?” Denton asked, setting a mug of coffee in front of me.
“I’m thinking about how monumentally stupid I’ve been,” I confessed, staring at the steam rising from the mug. “For eight years, I’ve managed their properties. Every problem, every tenant complaint, every repair, every tax filing. All for free, because I thought if I just gave enough, they would finally accept Willa.”
Denton reached across the table and took my hand. “It was never about giving enough, Corrine. You could have given them everything you had, and it wouldn’t have mattered. This is simply who they are.”
“I know that now,” I said, nodding slowly. “I finally see it.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
I looked up at him, my decision firm. “I’m stopping. I’m walking away from all of it. Let them figure out how to manage those properties without me. Let them see, exactly, how much I’ve been doing while they treated my daughter like trash.”
Denton didn’t hesitate. “Then do it.”
I picked up my phone and located the contact information for Franklin Good, the property attorney who had handled the initial setup for my parents’ rental business. Though it was late, I texted him immediately: I need to speak with you first thing tomorrow morning. It’s urgent.
He replied within minutes: Of course. Call me at 8.
I barely slept. By 7:30 a.m. the next morning, I was at the kitchen table, my laptop open, surrounded by every property file I had meticulously organized—lease agreements, tenant contacts, repair logs, tax documents, insurance policies. Eight years of work that had ensured my parents’ seamless retirement income.
At precisely 8:00 a.m., I called Franklin.
“Corinne, what’s going on?” he asked. “Your text sounded serious.”
“It is, Franklin. I’m officially stepping back from managing my parents’ properties. Effective immediately.”
There was a long, stunned silence on the line. “Are you absolutely sure about this? Your parents have no concept of how any of this works. Your father called me once asking how to reset his email password. I doubt he even knows how many properties he owns.”
“I’m sure,” I stated firmly. “All tenant communications, all repair coordination, all financial management. I am done. If they have questions, they can contact you directly.”
Franklin let out a deep sigh. “I’ll do what I can, but Corinne, this is going to be a catastrophe for them. You’ve been running the show.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s precisely the point.”
After hanging up, I spent two hours organizing everything into clearly labeled boxes. Every file, every document, every piece of information they would need to manage their own business was included. I drove to their house while they were out visiting Margo and placed the boxes squarely in front of the front door. I put a simple, typed note on top: You’re on your own now. Effective December 26th, I am no longer managing your properties. Good luck.
I didn’t sign it; I didn’t need to. As I walked back to my car, a crushing weight lifted from my shoulders. The exhausting effort of trying to earn their approval was gone. They wanted to treat my daughter as if she were worthless? Fine. They would see exactly how valuable I was when I was absent. I drove home with the windows down despite the biting cold, letting the winter air scour away the years of anxiety. I was done trying to fix things. I was done trying to be the “good daughter.” I was simply a mother protecting her child, and I was finished playing nice.
The fallout started almost instantly. December 26th. My phone began ringing at 7:00 a.m. It was my father. I watched his name flash on the screen and let it go to voicemail. He called repeatedly; by noon, he had tried seventeen times. Each voicemail grew more frantic: “Corinne, what is this? What do you mean you’re stepping back? Call me immediately.” “Corinne, this isn’t funny. We need to talk about this. You can’t just abandon your responsibilities.” “Corinne, one of the tenants is calling about a broken heater—I don’t know who to… Please call me back.”
My mother’s texts began around 2:00 p.m. As expected, they contained no apology or acknowledgment of her cruelty to Willa, only demands: “Stop being so dramatic and come handle this tenant situation. Your father is losing his mind.” “This is ridiculous, Corinne. You’re acting like a child. Call us immediately. We’re your parents.”
I ignored all of it. I turned off my phone and spent the day with Willa and Denton, watching movies and eating leftover cookies. For the first time in years, I was present with my family, unburdened by my parents’ endless needs.
By December 27th, things began to genuinely collapse. A pipe burst at one of the duplexes. My father, having no idea who the reliable, regular plumber was, panicked and found a name on an online listing that charged three times the standard rate. The man arrived, applied a useless temporary patch, and left without fixing the underlying issue. My father paid $800 for work that should have cost a fraction of that, and the leak continued.
December 28th brought financial chaos. Rent was due from four properties. My father couldn’t log into the online payment system I had set up, didn’t know the passwords, and couldn’t even recall which bank account the money was routed to. Payments were sent by the tenants, but the funds were stuck in a digital limbo. That same day, property tax notices arrived. My father called Franklin Good in a blind panic, demanding to know what to file and when. Franklin walked him through the basics, but my father, having relied entirely on me for eight years, was completely unable to follow the simplest instructions.
December 29th was when my mother finally started to crack. Two tenants called about major heating problems. My father, attempting to handle the coordination himself without my calm efficiency, lost his temper on the phone and threatened to evict both of them if they kept bothering him. One of those tenants, as fate would have it, was a paralegal. She immediately contacted a lawyer, citing harassment and potential violations of tenant rights. My mother called me fourteen times that day, her voicemails morphing from demanding to desperate: “Corinne, please. I don’t know what you want from us, but this is getting out of hand. Just tell us what you want and we’ll work it out!” I still didn’t call back.
December 30th was the breaking point. My mother tried to access the shared accounting spreadsheet I had meticulously maintained. She didn’t have the password. She couldn’t remember the connected email. She called the bank but failed the security questions. The property insurance premium was due in three days, and she had no idea of the amount or where to send the payment.
