My right to define family on my own terms. Last week Lily had her fourth birthday party. Michael and Jenny invited me to help plan it.
We had it at my apartment. Balloons everywhere. A cake I ordered from a fancy bakery.
Presents piled on the coffee table. Lily running around in a princess dress. Laughing.
Jenny taking pictures. Michael grilling on my balcony. Friends stopping by throughout the day.
So much noise. So much joy. At one point I stepped into the kitchen for a moment alone.
Just watching through the doorway as Michael swung Lily around in circles. As Jenny laughed at something a friend said. As my apartment, once so empty and quiet, filled with life and love.
I thought about that note on my kitchen counter 12 years ago. You’ll figure it out. And I had.
Not the way they meant. But I’d figured out what family should be. What love should look like.
What I deserved all along. I’m not saying everything’s perfect now. I still have trust issues.
Still go to therapy every week. Still have nightmares sometimes about being abandoned. Still flinch when my doorbell rings unexpectedly.
But I’m healing. We all are. Building something new from the broken pieces of our past.
Something stronger. Something chosen. Something real.
Sometimes people ask if I’ll ever reconcile with my parents. If I’ll ever let them meet Lily. If I’ll ever forgive them for what they did.
I don’t have answers to those questions yet. Maybe someday. Maybe never.
But what I do know is this. I’m not defined by what they did to me anymore. I’m defined by what I build after.
By the person I chose to become. By the family I chose to create. And that’s enough.