For years, I thought I’d moved on, but seeing my parents on my doorstep after seventeen years showed that old wounds linger. At seventeen, I rejected med school for acting and business. My parents, both doctors, were furious. They cut me off, and I left with barely anything, scraping by while they moved to the UK, proudly guiding my siblings to medical careers.
Years later, they returned to Sydney, struggling with the property market. I invited them to see my house, a modern home they couldn’t believe I owned. They assumed I rented and were shocked to learn I bought it through years of hard work in banking.
The visit turned ugly—accusations, disapproval, and demands that I let them stay. I refused, and they threatened to cut me out of their will. I laughed it off. Their legacy wasn’t mine; I’d built my own. As they left, my father warned I’d regret my choice. I shut the door, feeling oddly free. The regret they predicted? I’d faced it long ago.
