I set the iPad down very carefully and stared across the room at the framed photo on the mantel from my pharmacy school graduation. Aunt Betty stood beside me in a navy suit and pearls, one hand around my shoulders, pride radiating off her in a way my parents had never managed even when pretending. My mother and father were not in the picture because they had arrived late and left early after complaining about parking.
Memory arrived with such force it almost felt like Betty speaking through the walls.
You are gold, Valerie.
She had said that over crème brûlée at a restaurant in Napa after commencement, while my parents sulked because the restaurant was “too fancy” even though Betty was paying.
Promise me you will never rely on them. Financial independence is the only freedom a woman really has.
At twenty-six, I had rolled my eyes and kissed her cheek and said I knew. But I did not know. Not really. I knew how to budget. I knew how to work. I knew how to build security in spreadsheets and retirement accounts. I did not know that independence also meant recognizing who would rather use your life than live beside it.