My name is Camila. I’m thirty-five and a deputy general manager at a sports nutrition company. People constantly ask me why I’m not married, as if there’s something wrong with me. The truth is, I simply don’t want a serious relationship right now. I like my life the way it is.
My younger brother, Jake, is twenty-eight and married his longtime girlfriend Sarah last year. They’d been together for years, so no one was surprised. I was genuinely happy for them—and gave them $15,000 as a wedding gift. That’s no small amount, even with my salary. But Jake is my brother, and I wanted to help them start their life together, right?
The wedding was beautiful. Sarah looked radiant, Jake couldn’t stop smiling. Everything was perfect—until my family brought out their usual performance.
“Camila, when are you getting married?” Aunt Linda blurted out at the reception.
“You’re the only single one left in the whole family,” added Aunt Karen, as if I wasn’t already aware.
Even my mom joined in: “It’s about time we hear little footsteps echoing in your big house.”
I smiled and nodded like I always do. Inside, I was just trying to stay calm. To them, being single is a disease. Never mind that I have a great job, my own home, and I’m happy. That’s never enough.
Jake and Sarah moved into a small studio owned by our parents after the wedding. It’s small but decent, and best of all—they pay no rent. My mom asked me to help with the bills, so I cover their electricity and gas every month. I like helping family, but sometimes I wonder if they really appreciate it.
I’ve worked hard to get where I am. I started working at sixteen, studied, climbed the ladder for thirteen years. Three years ago, I became deputy general manager. Two years ago, I bought my own house: four bedrooms, a beautiful kitchen, a garden. Every square meter, I earned. I gave my parents a copy of the keys when I moved in. Pretty normal, right? They’re my parents—I trusted them.
Sunday family dinners are a tradition. But lately, something’s changed. Sarah started making comments—about how cramped the studio is, how unfair it is that single people have large houses while married couples squeeze into tiny spaces.
Jake joined in. They talked about having a baby and hinted that they didn’t have enough room. Three months later, they announced Sarah was pregnant. I was genuinely happy—until my mother said, “At least one of my kids is giving me grandchildren.”
Then Sarah, all sweet-smile, said, “Camila, we’ve spoken with Jake and your parents about our situation. We think the way housing is distributed in the family isn’t fair.”
I asked what they meant. That’s when they laid out their “plan”: I was to give my house to Jake and Sarah. I’d move into their studio. My parents even proposed making it official—like a property exchange.
I was stunned.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I’m not giving up my house.”
“Camila, don’t be so selfish,” my mom said.
“Selfish? I’ve worked thirteen years for this house. I pay your bills. I gave them $15,000 for their wedding. How am I selfish?”
My father called me a spinster. Jake called me stingy.
So I said, “Then sell your studio and buy them a house. Problem solved.”
They said they couldn’t afford a second mortgage.
So I left.
The next day—twelve missed calls. Dozens of texts blaming me for stressing Sarah, for putting the baby at risk. I was furious.
Then, that Friday, I got sick at work and came home early. When I arrived, I saw a moving truck outside my house. My parents were inside—packing my bags.
I shouted, “What are you doing here?!”
“We’re helping you move,” my mom replied casually.
I called the police. They arrived quickly. My parents tried to act like it was a misunderstanding. The officers asked if they had my permission. They didn’t. So they were taken to the station.
My mom called me from the precinct, begging me to drop the complaint. I refused. The next day, I went down in person to confirm I was pressing charges.
Then I got a letter from my mother:
“Camila, after careful thought, we’ve decided to disown you. You are no longer our daughter. You chose a house over your family.”
Signed, “Former Mother.”
I read it twice. And to my own surprise… I felt relieved. Finally free.
The weeks that followed were the calmest I’d had in years. I heard that Jake and Sarah were still living in the studio. My parents eventually sold their house and the studio to buy two apartments—one for themselves, one for Jake and Sarah.
All of this could have been avoided. But in the end, I learned a valuable lesson: sometimes, the people who claim to love you the most are the ones who hold you back.
Cutting toxic ties can be the kindest thing you do for yourself.
My family thought they were punishing me.
They made me stronger.
I realized I don’t need their approval to be happy.
Protecting yourself isn’t selfish—it’s survival.
