Then I opened my banking app.
I sent my father one dollar.
I replied with two words.
Good luck.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Dad: You selfish little witch. Mom is sick. You owe this family.
That sentence did something strange to me.
It did not break me.
It steadied me.
For years, rage had frightened me because I thought it meant I was becoming cruel.
That day, I understood rage could also be a locked door.
I took screenshots.
I saved the transfer receipt.
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