At twenty-eight, after years of saving, skipping vacations, working late nights, and taking every freelance project I could find, I finally purchased a small but stunning luxury apartment in Seattle. It had floor-to-ceiling windows, polished wood floors, and a bay view that made every sunrise look like a painting.
I didn’t buy it to impress anyone.
I bought it because it was the first thing in my life that truly belonged to me.
That evening, I drove to my parents’ house to share the news. I pictured my mother hugging me proudly, maybe even saying she admired that I had done it on my own.
Instead, as soon as I finished speaking, the room fell silent.
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