My name is Millie Miller. I am thirty-three, and for most of my life, I believed love meant being useful. I was “the responsible one.” When my younger sister Vanessa needed tuition after dropping out of college, I helped pay it. When Dad’s construction business collapsed, I covered bills. When Mom cried over final notices, I emptied my savings before I was old enough to understand resentment. Every emergency became mine. Every bad choice became my burden. And every time I helped, they said I was lucky to be “good with money.” As if discipline was luck. As if exhaustion was a personality trait.
