Free from the needy drama queen and her constant demands. We’d been together 4 years. I didn’t comment. This morning my phone wouldn’t stop vibrating with desperate messages and his mother begging me to reconsider.

Okay, so I have been dating Richard for 4 years, and it’s been a journey. Like one of those journeys where the tour guide abandons you halfway up the mountain and you realize you’ve been carrying everyone’s backpacks the whole time. That kind of journey.

We met when I volunteered at this community garden restoration project that my company was sponsoring. I was assigned to the compost team and Richard was the team leader who called himself the compost King. Unironically, y’all. Despite the red flags, I found his enthusiasm for rotting vegetables endearing. He had this whole speech about how breaking down is just the first step to building something beautiful, and my dumb plant-loving heart was like, sign me up for this metaphor.

Fast forward 4 years and I now realize the only thing being composted was my self-respect.

Let me count the ways. Richard had helped with rent exactly seven times in 4 years. My name is the only one on the lease because his credit is temporarily damaged for 4 years. He’s “between jobs” approximately 60% of the time we’ve been together. When he does have money, it goes to his gaming setup, his clothing, or going out with the boys. He’s asked to borrow my car more times than he’s asked how my day was.

But your girl was in love, so I made excuses for him. He was finding himself and had potential and all that garbage we tell ourselves when we’re dating a manchild.

So last week I got into a pretty bad car accident. Some idiot ran a red light and T-boned my car. I ended up with a broken leg, three fractured ribs, and a concussion. The doctor said I was lucky it wasn’t worse, but TBH it felt pretty damn awful.

Richard visited me in the hospital once for 20 minutes. He said hospitals give him anxiety and he needed to process this trauma in his own way. The trauma that happened to me. Not to make it about me or anything, but I was the one with metal pins in my leg.

My best friend Anastasia stayed with me, though. She slept in that uncomfortable hospital chair for 3 nights. She helped me to the bathroom, brought me real food, and even washed my hair in that tiny sink because I couldn’t shower.

That’s friendship, people.

So there I am, drugged up on pain meds, when Anastasia gets this weird look on her face while scrolling through her phone. I asked what was wrong and she tried to play it off, but I could tell something was up.

I grabbed her phone. Rude, I know, but pain meds make me aggressive, lol.

And what do I see?

Richard at a party with his arm around his ex, Katie.

The caption:

“Finally free from the needy drama queen and her constant demands.”

I just froze.

Four years. Four whole years of my life supporting this man emotionally, financially, putting up with his finding himself phases, his gaming addiction, his inability to clean a toilet properly… and this is what he posts when I’m literally broken in a hospital bed.

The worst part was seeing all the comments from our friends saying things like glad you’re happy bro and you deserve better. Where were the people saying, hey, isn’t your girlfriend in the hospital right now?

I didn’t comment. I didn’t text him. I didn’t call.

I just processed.

And while I processed, I remembered something very important.

My name is the only one on the lease.

So I made some calls. I called my landlord and explained the situation. I called my brother. I called my cousin. And I made a plan.

Fast forward to yesterday. Richard had been back to the apartment a few times while I was staying with Anastasia during my recovery, but he had no idea what was coming.

My brother and two of his co-workers helped me execute phase one of my plan. We packed up every single one of Richard’s belongings. Every crusty sock. Every limited edition Funko Pop. Every gaming console and special edition controller. His precious collection of craft beers. His signed baseball cards.

Everything.

And we threw it all in the dumpster behind our apartment complex.

Not the recycling bin.

The dumpster.

The compost King can decompose with his trash where he belongs.

That might seem harsh, but here’s the thing: Richard hadn’t paid rent in 3 months. The landlord had been sending notices that I’d been hiding from him because I was embarrassed that my boyfriend couldn’t contribute. I had been picking up extra freelance work to cover his while he told me he was networking for opportunities.

Here’s where it gets even better. You know what Richard was doing instead of visiting me in the hospital?

He was interviewing for a job.

A job that my connections helped him get.

A job he was supposed to start next week.

Was supposed to.

Let’s just say that the hiring manager is my former college roommate’s brother, and he received some very interesting information about Richard’s financial history and reliability, along with screenshots of those social media posts about being finally free from his needy girlfriend who was hospitalized.

This morning my phone started blowing up. Text after text from Richard.

“Where is my stuff?”

“Are you serious right now?”

“You can’t do this to me.”

“Everything I own was in that apartment.”

“My collector’s items are worth thousands.”

“You’re going to pay for this.”

And then the tone changed.

“Baby, please.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was just drunk and stupid.”

“Katie doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“I was just dealing with the stress.”

“Please call me back.”

“I love you so much.”

“We can work this out.”

“You’re the only one I want.”

But the best messages? Those came from his mother.

Richard’s mom has always treated me like I was lucky to be with her precious boy. She called me crying, saying I need to reconsider what I’ve done, that her son made a mistake but doesn’t deserve to have his life ruined. She said he told her about the other thing I did—the job situation—and that I was being vindictive and cruel.

And you know what?

Maybe I am.

But four years of supporting someone who couldn’t even be bothered to visit me more than once in the hospital, who publicly celebrated being free from me while I was learning how to use crutches…

The lease renewal is coming up next month. I’m not renewing. I’m moving in with Anastasia until I find a new place. A fresh start. With furniture that doesn’t have memories of Richard gaming on it while I cooked, cleaned, and paid the bills.

I don’t regret what I did. Not one bit.

Edit: no, I’m not worried about legal consequences. My cousin said since his name isn’t on the lease and he hasn’t financially contributed, he has very little recourse. Plus I have documentation of everything.

Yes, I’m healing well. Six more weeks in this cast, but the ribs are feeling better already.

For those asking why I stayed so long… love makes you stupid sometimes. He wasn’t always terrible, and the good moments made me think the bad ones were just temporary. Classic, I know.

I’ll update tomorrow with more of the fallout. His mother has now called me 17 times and left voicemails that range from sobbing to threatening. Richard apparently showed up at the apartment and the landlord wouldn’t let him in.

Your girl might have changed the locks.

First update: wow. I honestly didn’t expect my last post to get so much attention. Thank you everyone for your support and kind words and the legal advice. Much appreciated.

As promised, here’s what’s happened since my last update.

So remember how I mentioned Richard’s mom called me 17 times? Well, that number is now up to 43.

43 calls in less than 36 hours.

I finally answered call number 44 because I figured it would never end otherwise.

Let me paint you a picture of this phone call. Me, propped up in Anastasia’s guest bed with my broken leg elevated on three pillows, munching on sour cream and onion chips. Stress eating is my love language. While Richard’s mother Deborah alternated between sobbing, guilt tripping, and thinly veiled threats for 28 minutes.

Here’s the highlight reel.

“Richard has been crying for 2 days straight. I’ve never seen him like this.”

Funny. I cried for 2 days straight when I woke up in the hospital and he wasn’t there, but go off I guess.

“Do you know how much those collectibles were worth? His grandfather gave him some of those baseball cards.”

Do you know how much rent costs, Deborah? Because I do. Down to the penny for 4 years.

“He was planning to propose. You know he showed me the ring.”

Unless the ring was made of unpaid bills and broken promises, I highly doubt it.

“We could press charges for destruction of property.”

My lawyer cousin already confirmed they can’t, but okay.

When she said Richard told me everything about how you’ve been controlling his finances and isolating him from his friends and family, I literally laughed so hard I almost popped a stitch.

Me controlling his finances? The man who once spent our grocery money on a limited edition gaming keyboard. The man who borrowed $3,000 from me for a business opportunity that turned out to be cryptocurrency. The man who hasn’t voluntarily shown me his bank account in 3 years.

And isolating him from friends and family? I planned his birthday parties. I bought his mother’s Christmas presence. I drove him to family functions when his car got repossessed.

But here’s where it gets really interesting. I didn’t immediately hang up on Deborah, though believe me I wanted to. Instead, I asked her a simple question.

“Deborah, when was the last time Richard paid rent?”

She went quiet for a moment, then said he told me you two had an arrangement where you handled the household bills and he covered other expenses.

“What other expenses exactly?” I asked.

More silence.

Then well I’m not privy to your financial arrangements.

So I told her. I broke down exactly what Richard had contributed financially over the past 4 years. I told her about the $177,000 in credit card debt I racked up covering his half of expenses. I told her about working overtime and weekends while he played video games and “networked.” I told her about how I had to sell my grandmother’s jewelry last year to cover rent when Richard assured me he had money coming in that never materialized.

You could practically hear her worldview cracking through the phone.

“But he said he’s been supporting you,” she finally said. “He said you lost your job and he’s been carrying you financially.”

I lost my job? I’ve had the same job for 6 years with two promotions. Meanwhile Richard has had seven jobs in 4 years, the longest lasting approximately 3 months.

I didn’t say any of this though. Instead I simply told her I would email her copies of bank statements, rent receipts, and text messages that would clarify the situation. I also mentioned the social media posts he made while I was in the hospital, which she claimed to know nothing about.

The call ended with her saying she needed to speak with Richard and would get back to me.

She hasn’t called since.

Funny how that works.

Now let me back up and explain exactly how the great dumpster disposal went down, because many of you asked for details.

Obviously I couldn’t physically move all his stuff myself with my broken leg. My brother Dylan is literally my hero. He brought two of his guys over on their day off. I paid them, of course, because some of us understand the concept of paying for services rendered, Richard.

We started with his prized possessions. His gaming setup: three monitors, custom PC he spent $2,800 on while between jobs. His collectible figurines still in boxes because they’ll be worth more that way. His signed sports memorabilia that he refused to let me hang because it wouldn’t match the decor he never paid for. His craft beer collection, some bottles dating back to our first year together that he was “aging” but really just forgetting about.

It took 4 hours to pack everything. Four hours of finding random socks under the couch, discovering half-eaten bags of chips in the bedside table, and unearthing receipts for purchases I never knew about. It was like an archaeological dig into the life of a manchild.

When Dylan picked up Richard’s throne—yes, he called his gaming chair his throne—and carried it ceremoniously to the dumpster like he was disposing of a cursed artifact, I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

We didn’t break anything deliberately. We didn’t cut up his clothes or smash his electronics. We simply relocated them to their rightful home among the rest of the garbage.

I did keep one box of potentially important items: his birth certificate, social security card, a few family photos, and a folder of medical records. Those are with the landlord who is 100% on my side after I showed him the social media posts and explained the situation.

He even helped me change the locks.

Speaking of the landlord, he told me Richard showed up twice yesterday demanding to be let in. The second time he threatened to call the police, but mysteriously disappeared when the landlord said great idea, let’s call them together and explain how you haven’t paid rent in months.

Funny how cockroaches scatter when you turn on the lights, isn’t it.

Now, about the other thing I did. Remember how I mentioned Richard was starting a new job, a job my network helped him get?

It’s with a financial service company. He would have been handling client accounts and financial planning.

The problem is Richard can’t even plan his own finances. This is a man who once overdrafted his account buying a video game, then overdrafted it again the next day buying another video game because he forgot about the first overdraft.

So I reached out to my friend’s brother and simply shared some concerning information. Screenshots of Richard’s social media posts—unprofessional. His rental payment history—non-existent. And some choice text messages where he bragged about working the system to avoid paying bills.

Was this petty? Maybe. But consider this: would you want someone handling your retirement account who can’t even remember to pay his electric bill?

I didn’t lie. I didn’t exaggerate. I simply provided factual information about his character and financial responsibility.

What they did with that information was their decision.

Spoiler alert: they rescinded the job offer.

Which brings us to today’s developments. Richard has graduated from angry texts to sad emails. Long sad emails about how he’s been reflecting and realizes his mistakes and wants to make things right. He claims the posts with Katie were just for show and that they’re just friends and he was acting out because he was scared of losing me after the accident.

According to these emails, he’s a changed man. He’s seen the error of his ways. He’s ready to commit and contribute and be a real partner.

It only took a car accident that nearly killed me, 4 years of financial exploitation, public humiliation on social media, losing all his possessions, having his job offer rescinded, being exposed to his mother.

What a bargain price for personal growth.

Richard’s roommate from college, Remy, reached out to me. Apparently Richard has been staying on his couch and crying a lot while also planning to win me back. Remy wanted to warn me that Richard has been talking about some grand gesture to prove his love.

I thanked Remy for the heads up and asked him to let me know if Richard mentions anything concerning. Remy agreed and also apologized for not seeing what kind of person Richard really was.

Turns out Richard owes Remy money too.

I am shocked. Shocked, I tell you.

I’m honestly just tired. Physically from the accident. Emotionally from all this drama. But I’m also feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Relief.

It’s like I’ve been carrying a heavy backpack for years and suddenly it’s gone. My shoulders literally feel lighter.

Tomorrow I have a follow-up appointment for my leg and then Anastasia and I are going apartment hunting online. My lease ends in 30 days and I cannot wait to start fresh.

Thanks for listening to this marathon update. I’ll post again if anything major happens, especially if Richard attempts his grand gesture. Based on his track record, it will either be wildly inappropriate, surprisingly cheap, or somehow make everything about him.

Possibly all three.

Edit: several people asked about my car. It was totaled in the accident. Insurance is covering it, but I’m still waiting on the payout. For now I’m relying on Anastasia and ride share apps for transportation.

Edit two: for those concerned about Richard coming after me physically, don’t worry. My apartment building has security cameras, Anastasia’s building has a doorman, and Richard is above all else a coward. He talks big but wilts under any real confrontation.

Second update: hello again, my revenge loving internet family. Your girl is back with another update and whew, chile. The drama just keeps on coming. Grab your popcorn, refill your wine, and settle in, because this story has more twists than my garden hose. Plant lady jokes. I can’t help myself.

First, a medical update since some of you sweethearts asked. My follow-up appointment went well. The doctor says my leg is healing nicely and I might get this monster cast off in 4 weeks instead of six. My ribs still hurt when I laugh too hard, which has been challenging given recent events.

Now onto the tea that you’re all here for.

The grand gesture has occurred, and it was exactly as predictable, underwhelming, and self-centered as I expected.

Yesterday afternoon I was at Anastasia’s place scrolling through apartment listings when her doorman called up. Apparently there was a delivery for me. We weren’t expecting anything, so Anastasia went down to check. Remember, broken leg plus uned stairs are my nemesis.

She returned 5 minutes later with the strangest expression on her face and, wait for it, a compost bin.

A literal plastic container filled with dirt, worms, and what appeared to be kitchen scraps.

On top was a handwritten note that said:

“Like compost, our love can break down and rebuild into something stronger.”

“I’m decomposing my old self to become the man you deserve.”

“Please give us another chance to grow together.”

I cannot make this up. The compost King really thought that comparing our relationship to rotting food would win me back. The audacity. The delusion. The absolute tone-deaf nonsense of it all.

Anastasia and I laughed so hard I had to take extra pain medication for my ribs. She even took a picture of me looking completely bewildered next to this bucket of dirt and posted it to her Instagram with a caption when your BFF’s ex thinks worms are the way to a woman’s heart. She tagged me, but not him, thankfully.

But wait, there’s more.

Inside the compost—yes, he put items in the actual decomposing material—was a small velvet box containing a ring.

A ring covered in compost.

It wasn’t even a nice ring. It was clearly costume jewelry. The diamond was plastic and the gold was already turning my skin green just from holding it.

There was also a date engraved inside.

For context, that’s the date of his previous girlfriend’s birthday.

He literally gave me a recycled ring that he probably bought for Katie and never gave her.

A recycled ring in a compost bin.

The symbolism is too on the nose.

I texted him a single sentence:

“The compost bin is exactly where our relationship belongs, breaking down among the worms and garbage.”

His response was a barrage of texts explaining that the ring was just temporary until he could afford a real one and that the date was actually when he first realized he loved me.

I didn’t respond further.

But Anastasia—my hero—took the compost bin down to the dumpster behind her building and sent him a video of her dumping it out.

Now remember how I mentioned I sent those receipts and financial records to Richard’s mom, Deborah?

Well, she finally got back to me as promised. Her initial message was a novel-length email that went through the five stages of grief in real time.

Denial: there must be some mistake with these records. Richard told me he was contributing financially.

Anger: how dare you make my son look like this. You’ve clearly manipulated these statements.

Bargain: if there were financial issues why didn’t you come to me. I could have helped you both work something out.

Depression: I’m heartbroken to think my son would behave this way. I raised him better than this.

Acceptance: I owe you an apology. I had no idea what was really happening and I’m deeply sorry for my role in enabling his behavior.

That last part shocked me to my core.

An actual apology from Deborah. My son is perfect Williams.

Mark this day in the history books.

She followed up with a phone call. Just one this time, not 43. Where she revealed some illuminating information. Richard has been telling his entire family that he was supporting me financially for years. He told them I was unstable and couldn’t hold a job. He claimed the apartment was actually his and he generously let me stay there. He told them the car that got totaled was his car that he let me borrow.

He’s been borrowing money from his family members for years claiming it was to help with my spending problem.

The layers of lies. The fiction this man has been writing. He could have been using these creative writing skills to make actual money instead of scamming his girlfriend and family.

Deborah was clearly embarrassed and upset. She revealed that she’d given Richard over $155,000 in the past 2 years for emergencies that she now realizes were fabricated. She apologized repeatedly for her earlier messages and said she needed time to process everything.

I actually felt bad for her. She’s been manipulated by her son just as much as I was, possibly more. I told her I didn’t blame her and that Richard is very convincing when he wants to be.

The conversation ended with her saying something that gave me chills.

“I love my son, but he needs to face consequences for once in his life. I won’t be bailing him out this time.”

Progress, people. Actual progress.

Now for the big revelation. Many of you have been asking about what was the other thing I did besides the job situation and the dumpster disposal.

Well, remember those credit cards I mentioned? The ones where I racked up $177,000 in debt covering Richard’s expenses?

Turns out three of them were joint accounts that he opened with my information to build his credit but never made payments on. I’ve been working with my bank and a financial adviser to separate these accounts and document which charges were his. It’s a lengthy process, but I’ve managed to prove that approximately $11,000 of that debt is directly attributable to purchases he made.

I didn’t just send this information to his potential employer. I also sent it to his parents, his brother, and our mutual friends with a simple note: if Richard asks to borrow money or move in with you, this is what you can expect.

Is this petty? Maybe.

But it’s also true.

And truth is a powerful disinfectant for the kind of toxic relationships Richard creates.

Even Katie—the ex from the social media post—messaged me on Instagram.

“I had no idea you were in the hospital.”

“Richard told me you two broke up months ago. I’m so sorry.”

Months ago? We were literally living together until my accident. The fiction this man creates.

I responded politely to Katie assuring her I didn’t blame her. She revealed that Richard had been messaging her for weeks before the party, claiming we were on a break and that he was ready to move on. She feels terrible and offered to send me screenshots of their conversations.

I declined the screenshots. No need to torture myself further. But I thanked her for her honesty.

Richard showed up at Anastasia’s building again yesterday evening. The doorman refused to let him up. He’s getting a gift basket, so Richard caused a scene in the lobby, yelling that he just wants to talk and explain everything. The doorman called the police, but Richard left before they arrived.

He then proceeded to call me 37 times in the span of 2 hours. I didn’t answer, but he left increasingly desperate voicemails.

“Please just talk to me.”

“I can explain everything.”

“This is all a misunderstanding.”

“I was going to pay you back.”

“You’re ruining my life.”

“I have nowhere to go.”

“My mom won’t even let me stay with her.”

“I’m sleeping in my car.”

What car? His was repossessed months ago.

“I might do something desperate if you don’t call me back.”

That last one concerned me, so I called a wellness check on him. I had Remy’s address. The police reported back that he was fine, just emotional, and they recommended he seek mental health services.

Later Remy texted me.

“FYI Richard is no longer staying here. Found out he stole $200 from my wallet. Changed the locks.”

Wow. Just wow.

Even in crisis, this man can’t stop taking what isn’t his.

So where does this leave us? Richard is apparently couch surfing with increasingly distant acquaintances. His family isn’t bailing him out. His friends are dropping like flies. His job prospects are limited. His belongings are gone. His reputation is in tatters.

And me?

I’m healing both my leg and my heart. I found a promising apartment across town that’s actually less expensive than my current place. Anastasia has been an absolute rock. My family has rallied around me. My job has been incredibly understanding about my recovery.

I’m still angry. I’m still hurt.

But mostly I’m relieved. Like I’ve been underwater for 4 years and finally came up for air.

Next update will probably be my last as I’m focusing on moving forward rather than looking back, but I wanted to thank all of you for your support, advice, and hilarious comments. This community has been unexpectedly therapeutic during one of the hardest periods of my life.

Final update: hello for the last time, my internet support system. It’s been exactly 1 month since my first post, and what a month it’s been. I promised a final update, so here it is. The conclusion to The Saga of Richard the compost King and how your girl finally bloomed after being buried in his BS for 4 years.

First, the practical updates.

I moved. I’m officially in my new apartment as of yesterday. It’s smaller than my old place, but has a tiny balcony where I’ve already started a container garden. The building has an elevator, crucial for the broken leg situation, and security cameras, crucial for the ex-boyfriend situation.

My cast is off 2 weeks earlier than expected. I’m still using a walking boot, and physical therapy is no joke. I sweat more in PT than I ever did at the gym, but I can move around independently now, which feels amazing.

My car insurance finally paid out. I bought a used but reliable Ford that I’ve named Freedom. Cheesy, I know, but I’m leaning into it.

Now for what you’re really here for: the Richard saga conclusion.

After my last update, things escalated before they finally resolved. Richard’s desperation reached new heights when he realized his usual tactics—crying, begging, guilt tripping—weren’t working. He tried a new approach.

Public shaming.

He created a GoFundMe titled homeless after girlfriend’s revenge where he spun a completely fictional tale about how I stole his money and threw away family heirlooms after a minor argument. He included pictures of himself looking sad on what was clearly Remy’s couch before Remy kicked him out and claimed he needed $5,000 to get back on his feet.

The fundraiser lasted exactly 6 hours before it was taken down. Why? Because Anastasia, my brother Dylan, and at least a dozen of our mutual friends reported it for fraud. Plus several people commented with links to my Reddit posts, which I had never shared with Richard. Seeing his public grift exposed apparently triggered something in Richard.

He showed up at my old apartment building—thankfully I was already staying at Anastasia’s—and caused enough of a scene that the police were called. According to my former neighbors, he was yelling about defamation and lies and demanding to be let in to get his things.

When the police arrived, Richard attempted to convince them that he lived there and I had illegally locked him out. This backfired spectacularly when the landlord confirmed Richard was not on the lease. Richard couldn’t produce any mail or ID with that address. Multiple neighbors testified they knew I lived there alone.

The police ran his ID and discovered he had an outstanding warrant for unpaid traffic tickets.

Yes, my friends.

Richard got arrested.

Not for the scene he was causing, but for the $1200 in unpaid tickets he’d accumulated over the past 2 years. Tickets I had no idea existed because he’d been hiding the mail.

He spent two nights in jail before his brother—not his mother, interestingly—bailed him out.

According to mutual friends, this experience was apparently the wakeup call Richard needed. He’s since moved in with his brother, who is making him pay rent, started working at his brother’s company, and stopped contacting me entirely.

That last one is the most significant development. After weeks of constant calls, texts, emails, and dramatic gestures, the silence was sudden and absolute. No more 3:00 a.m. voicemails. No more essay-length emails about how he’s changed. No more compost-based metaphors about our relationship.

At first I was suspicious. Was this some new tactic? Was he planning something bigger? But according to his brother—who reached out to check on me, surprisingly—Richard is genuinely trying to get his life together and part of that process is leaving the past behind.

Translation: his therapist probably told him to stop harassing me.

And that brings me to the most important update: my mental and emotional state.

I’ve been seeing a therapist of my own—thanks, workplace insurance—and we’ve been unpacking some hard truths. I stayed with Richard not just because I loved him, but because fixing his problems gave me purpose and identity. I overlooked red flags because I was afraid of being alone. I enabled his behavior by constantly bailing him out. I valued myself so little that I thought his scraps of affection were all I deserved.

These realizations haven’t been easy to face. There were sessions where I cried until my ribs hurt all over again. But acknowledging these patterns is the first step to breaking them.

As for Richard’s mother, Deborah, we had one final conversation that brought unexpected closure. She invited me to lunch at a restaurant with ramp access for my leg. A thoughtfulness Richard never showed. We had a surprisingly honest discussion. She apologized again for not seeing what was happening and for raising a son who thought it was acceptable to treat partners this way.

She revealed that Richard’s father had similar patterns before their divorce, and she worried she had normalized financial irresponsibility and emotional manipulation. I found myself comforting her, which was a strange role reversal, but it was also healing to see that she genuinely cared and was taking steps to stop enabling Richard.

At the end of lunch she handed me an envelope containing $2,000 in cash.

“This doesn’t begin to cover what he owes you,” she said, “but it’s what I can do right now.”

I initially refused, but she insisted.

“This isn’t from Richard. This is from me. Because I failed as a mother if I raised someone who would treat you this way.”

I accepted the money and used it to furnish my new apartment. A fresh start without any remnants of Richard’s presence.

Thank you, Reddit, for witnessing this chapter of my life. Your support, advice, and occasional tough love helped me stay strong when I wanted to cave. You reminded me that I deserve better when I forgot.