The moment my mother slammed her palm against the dining table, the sharp crack echoed through the room and straight through my chest, the way it always did when she decided to make an example out of me. Her voice followed immediately, loud and theatrical, carefully calibrated so that every relative present would hear and silently take notes. She gestured dramatically toward my sister, Sena, who sat across from me with her eyes lowered and her lips pressed into a thin, almost reverent line. “Look at your sister,” my mother snapped.

“She sends us four thousand dollars every single month without fail. And you? You sit there like a guest in your own family. Ungrateful. Selfish. Always thinking only of yourself.” I opened my mouth, instinctively, the words already forming in my throat, the truth begging to come out after being buried for so long. “But actually—” I began, only for my father to cut me off with a hard glare and a voice sharpened by authority. “Don’t you dare take credit for your sister’s achievements,” he said. “If you have nothing generous to contribute, at least have the decency to stay quiet.