My daughter badly assaulted me and left me injured. She texted, “Stay away from us.” I replied, “Okay,” and canceled their new house mortgage. Five hours later—thirty missed calls.

When my daughter told me to go away after what she did to me, I smiled and said, “Okay.” What she didn’t know was that I’d already made a phone call that would change everything. I’m glad to have you here. Follow my story until the end and comment the city you’re watching from so I can see how far my story has reached.

My name is Elena, and at fifty-eight years old, I thought I understood what family meant. I thought I knew the difference between supporting your children and enabling them. I was wrong about so many things, but I was absolutely right about one thing: sometimes the people who hurt you most are the ones you’ve sacrificed everything for.

It started on a Tuesday morning in March. I remember because I had just finished my morning coffee and was reading the newspaper when my phone rang. Sarah’s name flashed on the screen, and my heart did that little skip it always did when one of my children called. After twenty-eight years of being a mother, you’d think I’d get used to it, but every call still felt like a small gift.

Sarah was twenty-six, my eldest, and she’d been living in the house I’d bought for her family three years ago—not renting, living. I’d purchased the four-bedroom colonial in Maple Heights outright, put it in my name, and handled the mortgage payments every month—$2,400—like clockwork, for three years running. It wasn’t easy on my teacher’s pension. But what mother wouldn’t do anything for her daughter’s family?

The house was perfect for Sarah, her husband Mark, and my two grandchildren—seven-year-old Jake and four-year-old Lily. White picket fence, good schools, safe neighborhood. Everything I dreamed of providing but couldn’t afford when Sarah was growing up. Back then, we’d lived in a cramped two-bedroom apartment where the walls were so thin you could hear the neighbors arguing about everything from dirty dishes to unpaid bills. I wanted better for Sarah. I wanted her children to have stability, to never worry about whether they’d have a roof over their heads next month.

So when Sarah and Mark were struggling to qualify for a mortgage after Mark’s credit took a hit during his unemployment, I stepped in. I liquidated my retirement savings, took out a loan against my own modest home, and made it happen.

“Hello, Mom.”

Sarah’s voice sounded strained when I answered.

“Can you come over? We need to talk about something important.”

The tone made my stomach clench. In my experience, conversations that started with “We need to talk” rarely ended well. But this was my daughter—my firstborn—the little girl who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms and tell me I was the bravest person in the world.

“Of course, sweetheart. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “Just come over when you can. We’ll be here all day.”

I threw on my coat and drove the fifteen minutes to Maple Heights, my mind cycling through possibilities. Maybe Mark had gotten that promotion he’d been hoping for. Maybe they were finally ready to start taking over the mortgage payments like we’d discussed. Maybe Sarah was pregnant again—though, at twenty-six with two young children, I wasn’t sure how she’d feel about that.

The house looked beautiful as always when I pulled into the driveway. The lawn was perfectly manicured thanks to the landscaping service I also paid for. The exterior had been freshly painted last spring—a warm cream color that Sarah had chosen. I’d written the check for that, too, along with a new roof the year before and the updated kitchen appliances that Sarah insisted they needed.

I rang the doorbell even though Sarah had told me a dozen times I didn’t need to. This was her home, her space, and I respected that boundary even though my name was on the deed. Mark answered the door, and something in his expression immediately put me on edge. He looked uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact as he stepped aside to let me in. Mark was usually warm with me—grateful for everything I’d done for his family. Today, he looked like a man who’d rather be anywhere else.

Sarah was sitting on the living room couch—the one from the expensive furniture set I’d helped them buy when they first moved in. She looked nervous, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The children were nowhere to be seen, which was unusual. Normally, Jake and Lily would come running when I arrived, eager to show me their latest drawings or tell me about something that happened at school.

“Where are the kids?”

“They’re upstairs playing,” Sarah said. “Mom, we need to discuss the house situation.”

My heart started beating faster. Here it comes, I thought. They’re finally ready to take responsibility—to start making the payments themselves. Mark must have gotten that promotion. Or maybe Sarah had decided to go back to work now that Lily was getting older.

“I’ve been thinking about our arrangement,” Sarah continued, “and I think it’s time for some changes. Mark and I have been talking, and we feel like the current setup isn’t working for anyone.”

I nodded encouragingly. I understood completely. They were young adults, parents themselves, and they wanted the pride that comes with true homeownership. I’d been wondering when this conversation would come, and honestly, I was proud of them for initiating it.

“What kind of changes did you have in mind?” I asked. “Are you ready to start taking over the payments? Maybe we could work out a gradual transition where you take on more each month until you’re covering everything.”

Sarah’s expression shifted, and something cold flickered in her eyes.

“That’s not exactly what we had in mind, Mom. We think you should sign—no more payments. Just transfer the house over to us completely. No more mortgage, ownership, and walk away.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stared at her, certain I’d misunderstood.

“Excuse me? You want me to give you a house worth $400,000—just give it to you?”

“You’ve been making the payments anyway,” Sarah said, her voice taking on a defensive edge. “It’s not like this would change anything for you financially.”

“But I’d also lose a $400,000 asset,” I said slowly. “Sarah, I’ve put my entire financial future into this house—my retirement, my savings, everything. This house is my security for when I can’t work anymore.”

Mark shifted uncomfortably beside her, but Sarah’s expression hardened.

“Mom, you’re being dramatic. You have your pension. You have your own house. You don’t need this, too. And honestly, it would mean a lot to us to actually feel like homeowners instead of feeling like we’re just borrowing it from you.”

The manipulation in her words was so subtle I almost missed it. Almost. She was trying to make me feel guilty for not giving away my life’s work, for not bankrupting myself for their convenience. But there was something else in her tone—something that made my skin crawl. Entitlement. Like she deserved this house. Like I owed it to her.

“Sarah,” I said carefully, “I understand wanting to own your own home, but what you’re asking me to do would leave me with nothing. I’d have no savings, no investment, no safety net. I’d be completely dependent on my pension, which barely covers my basic expenses as it is.”

“That’s not our problem, Mom.”

Sarah’s mask slipped completely, revealing something ugly underneath.

“You chose to buy this house. You chose to put yourself in this position. We never asked you to.”

The cruelty in her voice took my breath away. This was my daughter—the little girl I’d rocked to sleep every night, the teenager I’d worked two jobs to put through college, the young woman I’d—

“You did ask me,” I whispered. “You begged me to help when you couldn’t get approved for a mortgage. You said it would just be temporary until you got back on your feet.”

“That was different,” Sarah snapped. “That was an emergency. This is about what makes sense now. Mark and I have decided we want full ownership. And frankly, it’s weird having my mother own the house we live in. It makes us feel like children.”

I felt something shift inside me, like a door closing. For three years, I’d watched Sarah and Mark live comfortably in a house they couldn’t afford—watched my grandchildren play in a backyard I’d paid for, watched them host dinner parties and birthday celebrations in rooms furnished with my money. And not once—not a single time—had either of them expressed gratitude or acknowledged the sacrifice I was making.

“Sarah,” I said quietly, “I need you to understand something. I’ve paid $72,000 in mortgage payments over the past three years. That’s not including the down payment, the closing costs, the repairs, the landscaping, or any of the other expenses. I’ve invested nearly $200,000 in this house.”

“So?” Sarah’s voice was getting louder, more aggressive. “That was your choice. Nobody forced you to do any of that.”

“You’re right,” I said, standing up from the chair. “Nobody forced me. I did it because I loved you and wanted to help your family. But what you’re asking me to do now isn’t love. It’s theft.”

Sarah’s face flushed red with anger.

“Theft? Are you kidding me right now? This is your daughter asking for help, and you’re calling it theft?”

“No,” I said calmly. “This is my daughter demanding that I give her a $400,000 house for free after I’ve already invested my life savings in her family’s comfort. There’s a difference.”

Mark finally spoke up, his voice weak and uncomfortable.

“Mrs. Patterson, maybe we could work out some kind of payment plan. We could pay you back over time.”

Sarah whirled on him with a fury that made me step back.

“Don’t you dare take her side, Mark. We talked about this. We agreed that this was the best solution for our family.”

“Best solution for your family,” I corrected. “Not for mine. Sarah, I love you and I love your children, but what you’re asking is impossible. I can’t afford to just give away my only asset.”

“Then you’re being selfish,” Sarah said, her voice dripping with contempt. “After everything Mark and I have been through, after all the stress we’ve dealt with, you can’t even do this one thing for your own daughter.”

The gaslighting was so blatant it was almost impressive. She was trying to make me feel guilty for not bankrupting myself for her convenience—for not giving away the security I’d worked forty years to build.

“Sarah,” I said, my voice getting firmer, “I’ve done more for your family than most parents ever do. I’ve sacrificed my financial future to give you stability. But I won’t be manipulated into giving away everything I have left.”

That’s when something in Sarah’s expression changed completely. The mask of the loving daughter, the struggling young mother, the grateful recipient of my help—it all fell away. What remained was someone I barely recognized.

“Fine,” she said, her voice cold as ice. “If that’s how you want to be, then maybe you should leave. We don’t need your help anymore, and we don’t need your guilt trips.”

I stared at her, feeling like I was looking at a stranger.

“Sarah, what’s happened to you? This isn’t who you are.”

“This is exactly who I am,” she shot back. “I’m someone who’s tired of being treated like a charity case by her own mother. I’m tired of you holding this house over our heads like we should be grateful for something you chose to do.”

Mark looked like he wanted to disappear into the couch cushions. The children’s voices drifted down from upstairs—innocent and happy—unaware that their world was about to change forever.

“You know what, Mom?” Sarah continued, her voice getting louder and more vicious. “Since you’re so worried about your precious investment, maybe you should just go away and let us live our lives without your constant reminders of how much you’ve done for us.”

Go away. The words hung in the air like poison—my own daughter telling me to go away from the house I’d bought, the family I’d supported, the grandchildren I adored.

But it was what happened next that changed everything. Sarah stepped closer to me, her face twisted with anger, and shoved me hard in the chest with both hands. I stumbled backward, my hip hitting the corner of the coffee table—pain shooting through my body as I struggled to keep my balance.

“Mom!” Mark shouted, jumping up from the couch. “Sarah, what are you doing?”

But Sarah wasn’t finished. She shoved me again—harder this time—and I fell backward onto the hardwood floor, my head hitting with a sickening crack. Stars exploded across my vision, and I tasted blood in my mouth.

“Get out!” Sarah screamed, standing over me as I lay on the floor of the house I’d bought for her. “Get out and don’t come back. We don’t want you here.”

Mark was beside me instantly, helping me sit up, his face pale with shock.

“Mrs. Patterson, are you okay? Sarah, what is wrong with you?”

But Sarah had already turned away, dismissing me like I was nothing more than an unwelcome intruder—like I hadn’t spent the last three years pouring my heart and my life savings into her family’s happiness.

I sat there on the floor, my head throbbing, my hip screaming in pain, and felt something break inside me. Not my bones—though they hurt plenty. Something deeper. Something that had been holding me back from seeing the truth about who my daughter had become.

Mark helped me to my feet, his hands gentle and apologetic.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately.”

But I knew. I knew exactly what had gotten into her: entitlement—the belief that everything I’d given her was owed to her, that my sacrifices were her right, that my love was something she could take for granted and throw away when it became inconvenient.

“I’ll be fine,” I told Mark, even though I wasn’t sure that was true. “I need to go home now.”

Sarah didn’t even look at me as I gathered my purse and headed for the door. She’d already moved on—already dismissed the mother who’d given her everything as irrelevant to her life.

As I reached the front door, I turned back one last time. “Go away,” Sarah had said. Fine. I would go away—but not in the way she expected. I smiled at her back, though she couldn’t see it.

“Okay, sweetheart,” I said quietly. “I’ll go away.”

What she didn’t know was that I’d already made the phone call that would change everything.

I drove home in a daze, my hands shaking on the steering wheel. The taste of blood was still in my mouth, and every time I touched the back of my head, my fingers came away sticky. Sarah had actually put her hands on me—my own daughter had physically assaulted me in the house I was paying for—then screamed at me to get out like I was some kind of criminal.

But what hurt more than the physical pain was the realization of what my daughter had become. This wasn’t a momentary lapse in judgment or stress talking. This was calculated cruelty from someone who felt entitled to everything I’d given her and resentful that I hadn’t given more.

When I got home, I sat in my car for ten minutes, staring at my own modest two-bedroom house. The paint was peeling around the windows, and the front steps needed repair, but I’d been putting off maintenance to keep up with Sarah’s mortgage payments. My own home was deteriorating while I poured money into hers.

I walked inside and immediately went to my bathroom mirror. A purple bruise was already forming on my left cheekbone where I’d hit the floor, and there was dried blood in my hair. I looked like a domestic-violence victim—which I realized, with a sick feeling, was exactly what I was.

I cleaned myself up as best I could, then sat down at my kitchen table with my laptop and a cup of tea that I couldn’t quite keep from trembling in my hands. There were things I needed to do—calls I needed to make. But first, I wanted to understand exactly what my financial situation looked like.

I pulled up my bank statements and started calculating. $72,000 in mortgage payments over three years. $25,000 for the down payment and closing costs. $8,000 for the new roof. $12,000 for the kitchen appliances. $4,000 for the landscaping service. $3,000 for the furniture. $6,000 for various repairs and maintenance. The total was staggering: $130,000.

I’d spent $130,000 on Sarah’s family over the past three years, and today she’d shoved me to the ground and told me to get out.

But the mortgage payments were just the beginning. There was also the opportunity cost of what that money could have been doing for my own future. If I’d invested that $72,000 instead of paying Sarah’s mortgage, it could have grown substantially. Instead, I was living paycheck to paycheck on my teacher’s pension while my daughter lived in luxury.

I opened a new browser window and searched for the phone number I needed. My fingers hesitated over the keyboard for just a moment, but then I remembered Sarah standing over me as I lay bleeding on her floor, screaming at me to get out.

The phone rang three times before a professional voice answered.

“Mortgage Services. This is Jennifer speaking. How can I help you today?”

“Hello, Jennifer. My name is Elena Patterson, and I need to discuss my account. The property address is 1247 Maple Heights Drive.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Patterson. Can you verify your Social Security number and the last four digits of the account?”

I provided the information, my heart pounding as I prepared to say the words that would change everything.

“I can see your account here, Mrs. Patterson. Your payment is actually ahead of schedule, which is wonderful. What can I help you with today?”

“I need to cancel the automatic payments immediately, and I want to discuss my options for the property.”

There was a brief pause.

“I see. Are you experiencing financial hardship? We have several programs that might help.”

“No financial hardship,” I said, my voice getting stronger. “I’m choosing to stop making payments on a property where I’m no longer welcome.”

“I understand. I’ll need to transfer you to our account-management department, but I can stop the automatic payments right now if you’d like.”

“Yes, please do that immediately.”

“Done. Your automatic payment scheduled for next week has been canceled. Now, let me transfer you to someone who can discuss your other options.”

While I waited on hold, I thought about Sarah’s reaction when she realized what I’d done. She’d probably assume it was an empty threat—that I’d come crawling back within a few days, checkbook in hand, begging her forgiveness. She had no idea how wrong she was.

“Mrs. Patterson, this is David in account management. I understand you want to discuss your mortgage options.”

“Yes. I want to know what happens if I simply stop making payments entirely.”

David’s voice became more cautious.

“Well, Mrs. Patterson, if you stop making payments, the account would go into default after thirty days. After that, we’d begin foreclosure proceedings, which typically take several months to complete.”

“And during that time, would the current occupants be able to remain in the house?”

“The occupants would receive legal notices about the foreclosure proceedings, but yes, they could remain in the property until the process is complete. However, Mrs. Patterson, I have to ask if you’ve considered the impact this would have on your credit score and financial standing.”

I almost laughed. My credit score—as if that mattered when my own daughter had just assaulted me and demanded I give her a $400,000 house for free.

“David, let me ask you something. If I were to sell this property instead of letting it go into foreclosure, how would that process work?”

“Well, you’d need to list it with a real estate agent. But since there are current occupants, that could complicate things. Do the occupants have any legal right to the property? A lease agreement or anything like that?”

“No lease agreement. They’re family members who have been living there while I paid the mortgage.”

“I see. In that case, as the property owner, you have the right to sell whenever you choose. You just need to provide proper notice to the occupants according to your state’s laws.”

“How much notice?”

“Typically thirty days for month-to-month occupancy. But I’d recommend consulting with a real-estate attorney to make sure you follow all the proper procedures.”

After I hung up, I sat in my kitchen as the afternoon light faded, thinking about everything that had led to this moment. Three years of sacrifice. Three years of putting Sarah’s family’s needs ahead of my own. Three years of watching my own home fall apart while I maintained theirs. And today, when I’d simply asked them to consider taking responsibility for their own lives, Sarah had responded with violence and cruelty that took my breath away.

My phone buzzed with a text message. Sarah’s name appeared on the screen, and my stomach clenched, expecting either a fake apology or another round of verbal abuse. Instead, the message was short—and somehow even more hurtful than her earlier behavior.

“We’re going out to dinner tonight. Don’t expect us to be home if you decide to come by with more drama.”

Drama. She was calling my refusal to bankrupt myself for her convenience drama. She was treating me like an inconvenience in her life—an annoying obligation she had to manage.

I stared at that message for a long time, and something crystallized inside me. This wasn’t about money anymore. This wasn’t even about the house. This was about respect—about basic human decency, about the way we treat the people who love us most. Sarah had forgotten that love wasn’t supposed to be a one-way street. She’d forgotten that generosity had limits—that even a mother’s love couldn’t survive being taken for granted indefinitely. Most importantly, she’d forgotten that actions have consequences.

I opened my contacts and scrolled to my real-estate agent’s number. Patricia had helped me buy my own home fifteen years ago, and we’d stayed in touch over the years. She was honest, efficient, and had no patience for people who tried to take advantage of others.

“Elena.”

Patricia’s warm voice filled the phone. “How lovely to hear from you. What can I do for you?”

“Patricia, I need to discuss selling a property. The situation is complicated, but I need someone I can trust to handle it properly.”

“Of course, dear. What’s the property?”

“It’s the house I bought for my daughter’s family three years ago. The one in Maple Heights.”

Patricia was quiet for a moment. She knew about my arrangement with Sarah because I’d asked her advice when I first considered the purchase.

“Elena, what’s happened?”

I told her everything—the demand that I simply give them the house, Sarah’s cruel dismissal of my concerns, and finally the physical assault that had ended with me bleeding on the floor of my own property.

Patricia’s voice was ice-cold when I finished.

“She put her hands on you?”

“Shoved me to the ground twice, then told me to get out and never come back.”

“Elena, honey, I’m so sorry. No one deserves that—especially not from their own child. Now, about this house—are you sure you want to sell? It’s a big decision.”

“I’m absolutely certain. I’ve already canceled the mortgage payments. Patricia, I need you to understand something. I’m not doing this out of spite or anger. I’m doing it because I finally understand that enabling Sarah’s entitlement isn’t helping anyone—least of all her children.”

“I understand completely. When do you want to start the process?”

“As soon as possible. And Patricia—Sarah doesn’t know yet. I want this to be handled by the book—completely professionally. But I also want it to be a surprise.”

“Oh, honey. It’ll be a surprise, all right. Houses in that neighborhood are selling fast. We could probably have a buyer within two weeks if we price it right.”

After we hung up, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: relief. For the first time in three years, I wasn’t going to wake up tomorrow worried about making Sarah’s mortgage payment. I wasn’t going to spend my weekends driving to home-improvement stores to buy supplies for repairs on a house I didn’t even get to live in. I was going to start living for myself again. And if that meant Sarah had to face the consequences of her choices, then so be it.

I made myself a simple dinner and ate it slowly, savoring the quiet of my own home. No children screaming in the background. No Sarah calling to complain about some new expense she expected me to cover. No Mark awkwardly trying to mediate between his entitled wife and his generous mother-in-law. Just peace—and the satisfying knowledge that tomorrow morning Patricia would be driving over to Maple Heights to take photos and measurements, preparing to list the house that Sarah thought she owned.

My phone rang around eight. Sarah’s name flashed on the screen, and I almost didn’t answer, but curiosity got the better of me.

“Hello, Sarah.”

“Mom, I’ve been thinking about our conversation today.” Her voice was different now—less hostile, but still carrying that undertone of manipulation I was learning to recognize. “Maybe we were both a little emotional. I think we should talk again tomorrow and work something out.”

“Work something out?” I repeated carefully. “What kind of something?”

“Well, maybe we could do a gradual transition like you suggested. Mark and I could start taking over some of the payments, and eventually we’d take over completely.”

I almost smiled. She’d probably spent the evening calculating their finances and realized that losing my monthly payments would mean losing the house entirely. Now she was trying to backtrack—hoping to manipulate me back into my role as the family bank.

“Sarah, that’s an interesting offer, but I have a question for you.”

“Okay.”

“Are you planning to apologize for putting your hands on me today?”

The silence stretched so long I thought she might have hung up.

“Mom, I think you’re exaggerating what happened. We had an argument. Things got heated, but nobody got hurt.”

“I have a bruise on my face and dried blood in my hair. Sarah, I got hurt.”

“You’re being dramatic. You barely fell down.”

And there it was. No apology. No acknowledgment of what she’d done. No remorse for assaulting her own mother. Just dismissal and gaslighting—trying to make me doubt my own experience.

“Sarah, I need you to listen very carefully. I will not be making any more mortgage payments on your house. Not next month. Not next week. Not ever again.”

“Mom, don’t be ridiculous. You can’t just stop paying. What about the kids? What about our stability?”

“You should have thought about that before you put your hands on me and told me to get out of my own property.”

“Our property,” Sarah corrected automatically. “We live here. This is our home.”

“No, Sarah. This is my property. My name is on the deed. I make the payments. And I’ve decided that I’m done supporting a family that treats me like garbage.”

I could hear her breathing getting faster—panic creeping into her voice.

“Mom, you’re overreacting. Can’t we just talk about this like adults?”

“I tried to talk to you like an adult today. You responded by assaulting me. This conversation is over.”

I hung up and immediately blocked her number. Then I turned off my phone entirely and ran myself a hot bath. Tomorrow would bring new challenges. But tonight, I was going to soak in my own bathtub in my own home and feel grateful that I had finally found the strength to stop letting my daughter destroy my life.

As I settled into the warm water, I thought about my grandchildren. Jake and Lily were innocent in all this, and it broke my heart that they’d be caught in the middle. But they were also learning—from watching their mother treat their grandmother like a personal ATM. If I kept enabling Sarah’s behavior, what lesson was I teaching them about respect, gratitude, and taking responsibility for their own lives?

Sometimes loving someone means refusing to enable their worst impulses. Sometimes being a good mother means letting your adult children face the consequences of their choices. And sometimes the most loving thing you can do is walk away.

Sarah had told me to go away, and I’d said “okay.” What she didn’t realize was that when I walked away, I was taking my financial support with me. She was about to learn a very expensive lesson about the difference between unconditional love and unconditional enabling.

My phone had been off all night, but when I turned it on the next morning, I had seventeen missed calls from Sarah and twelve from Mark. There were also several text messages that grew increasingly frantic as the night progressed—but I wasn’t ready to deal with that yet. First, I had an appointment with Patricia to sign the listing agreement and get the ball rolling on selling the house that Sarah thought she owned.

It was going to be a very interesting few weeks.

The calls kept coming for days. Thirty missed calls turned into fifty, then seventy. Sarah left voicemails that ranged from angry demands to tearful pleas to threats about keeping me from my grandchildren. But I’d learned something important about boundaries, and I wasn’t crossing back over the line I’d finally drawn.

Patricia listed the house on a Thursday morning, and by Sunday we had three offers above asking price. Sarah must have seen the realtor sign because the calls became desperate—hysterical. Mark even showed up at my door, but I watched him through the peephole and didn’t answer. Some lessons can only be learned the hard way.

When I finally answered Sarah’s call two weeks later, her voice was small and broken. She apologized for everything, promised things would be different, begged me to reconsider. But apologies that only come when consequences arrive aren’t really apologies at all. They’re just fear dressed up as remorse.

I sold that house for $420,000. After paying off the mortgage and fees, I walked away with enough to secure my own retirement and restore my financial independence. Sarah and her family moved in with Mark’s parents, and last I heard, they were both working full-time jobs for the first time in years.

My grandchildren still send me drawings through Mark’s mother. And someday, when they’re older, maybe they’ll understand why their grandmother had to teach their mother that love, without respect, isn’t love at all. It’s just enabling dressed up as affection.

Sometimes the most loving thing you can do for your children is let them fall. Sometimes saying no is the greatest gift you can give. And sometimes, when someone tells you to go away, the best response is simply “okay.”

Now I want to hear from you. Have you ever had to set boundaries with family members who took your generosity for granted? Comment below and let me know what city you’re watching from. Thanks for listening to my story—and remember, you teach people how to treat you by what you’re willing to accept.