I never imagined I’d be the kind of person who would write something like this, but here I am—trying to figure out whether my actions make me a terrible person. I’m 32, married, and childless. I grew up feeling practically invisible.

My parents divorced when I was eight, and my mom, Denise, moved on almost immediately. She remarried, got absorbed into her new “perfect family,” and I became the child she mentioned only when absolutely necessary. We hadn’t been close in years, but I still invited her to my wedding.

She told me she couldn’t attend because her husband had scheduled a trip to Miami with her stepdaughter the same weekend as my wedding. I cried that night, but after that, I cut contact completely. In the meantime, I built a life for myself.

I studied hard, married a good man, and established a steady career. We’re not wealthy, but we’re comfortable. My mom, however, spent years chasing a lifestyle well beyond her means.

She always wanted to seem successful, even when she wasn’t. Then, last month, I came home from work and found her car parked in my driveway. She climbed out with a big smile, acting as though we’d last seen each other just the week before.

For a moment, I thought maybe she was there to apologize. But that hope faded fast. She hugged me like nothing had ever happened, telling me how proud she was of me and how much she’d been thinking about me lately.

And then—after barely two minutes of small talk—she said it. The awful truth behind her sudden reappearance. She was drowning in debt and needed my help.

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. It just slipped out. After years of silence, this was why she showed up?

I said, “You skipped my wedding for a vacation with your STEPDAUGHTER, and now you’re here because you’re broke?” She started crying and said, “She’s still my mother.”

I asked her to leave. She begged me not to do that, but I closed the door. For a moment, I felt relieved, like I had finally stood up for the child she had left behind.

But later that night, guilt started creeping in. My aunt called me heartless. My cousins told me I’d regret it.

And my mom told everyone—of course twisting the story—but she told them. In that moment, at least, she remembered she had a daughter. Maybe they’re right.

But I keep coming back to the same question: where was she when I needed her? I honestly don’t know… Did I finally protect myself, or did I become the very person she raised me to be? Source: brightside.me