And my mother’s eleven-year-old letter reminded me of something even more important.
For years, I had believed that being independent was something I had chosen.
In reality, it had been something my family had demanded of me.
They had told me I didn’t need help.
So I learned to help myself.
They had told me I was strong.
So I became strong.
They had expected me to build my own life.
So I did.
And when I finally built something valuable, they tried to claim it.
But they couldn’t.
Because the beach house was never theirs to begin with.
It was mine.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel guilty saying so.
