Sometimes I still hear Grandma’s voice, soft and steady:
“You’ve got something to say, honey. Say it.”
So I do.
My brother visits sometimes. We sit on the porch steps with iced tea and careful conversation. We don’t rewrite the past. We choose peace. My parents remain silent. I set the boundaries I should’ve set years ago and let the ache be what it is.
If there’s a lesson, it’s this:
People close to you might not believe in your voice. They might try to rewrite your story to suit their own. But you get to decide whose script you carry. And if you’re lucky, someone—maybe a grandmother, maybe a friend—will hand you permission when you can’t find your own. Not because of money or fame, but because you kept going when everything said stop.
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