What followed was brutal and rapid: sales, relocation, ordinary jobs. Their facade collapsed.
My work, however, grew in scope. My collection was noticed. I launched my own brand. Then, with the profits, I bought back the old family home at auction.
I didn’t save her. I transformed her.
The dining room became a workshop. The bedrooms, classrooms. I created a community project there for young people who had been told they were a problem.
On the door, a plaque reads: « Not a Mistake Project. » Below it: « For those who were led to believe they were the problem. »
My parents came once. They watched, silent.
« You erased us, » my father said.
« No, » I replied. « I’ve passed you. »
We’re not a perfectly reunited family. Sometimes I answer their calls, sometimes I don’t. They live modestly. I live freely.
For me, revenge wasn’t about destroying them. It was about destroying the version of myself that still needed their approval.
And to build something where their contempt no longer had any power.
So I leave you with this question: if those who broke you were to return one day crying, would you open the door? And above all, according to what rules?
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