My parents were obsessed with having a “perfect” vacation. When my six-year-old got carsick on the highway, the mask fell. My mother slapped her and shoved a plastic bag at her, screaming, “Don’t ruin my leather seats, you little pig!” I tried to stop her—she shoved me back.

Three days earlier, I’d stood at the Hertz Gold counter while Robert paced the terminal, pretending to be on an “important international business call” so he wouldn’t have to hand over a credit card. I’d placed my American Express Platinum on the counter. I’d signed the rental agreement. I’d paid for the extra insurance because I knew exactly how he drove.

I paid for the car.
I paid for the first-class flights.
I paid for the Presidential Suite at the Grand View Resort—$2,500 a night.

I always paid. I was the dutiful daughter. The family ATM. Every time I tried to draw a boundary, the same guilt followed: We sacrificed everything for you. We’re getting old. You want us to rot in economy class?

So I paid. I bought silence. I let them pretend the luxury was theirs.

“Mommy…” Lily whispered beside me.

Her voice trembled.

I looked down. Her skin had gone pale, her small hands clutching her stomach.

“I feel sick.”

My stomach dropped. Lily suffered from severe motion sickness—especially when someone drove like a maniac.

“Dad, slow down,” I said. “She’s getting carsick.”

“We’re almost there!” Robert shouted, accelerating. “I’m not slowing down now. Tell her to close her eyes and stop being dramatic.”