Chapter 4
Always behind my back.
Always with the same phrase.
“You’ll thank us later.”
They signed me up for a science fair I had no interest in.
“You’ll thank us later, Dana. It’ll look good on college applications.”
They invited a girl I didn’t like to a birthday party, convinced I’d become best friends with her.
“You’ll thank us later.”
I didn’t thank them.
What those choices taught me wasn’t resilience or gratitude. It was that my opinion didn’t matter, that someone else always knew better, that if I pushed back, I was being difficult.
And Briana, she never had those forced lessons.
No clubs she didn’t want, no friends she didn’t like.
Everything was tailored to her.
By the time I was grown, the favoritism wasn’t even subtle anymore.
Then came Preston.
When I married him, everyone told me I was lucky.
He was handsome, well-dressed, came from money, the kind of man who picked up the tab for the whole table, who bought champagne for strangers just to make a scene.
And he was generous in a very particular way.
He paid off part of my parents’ mortgage.
He slipped Briana envelopes of cash when she complained about bills.
At holidays, he turned up with expensive gifts, all smiles.
To my family, Preston was a dream.
To me, he was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.
Because behind closed doors, Preston was cold, detached. He had lovers, and he didn’t even bother to hide it.
The first time I confronted him, I was shaking. I’d found messages clear as day.
He looked me dead in the eye and said, “So what? What’s the big deal? Look at your life, Dana. The house, the clothes, the money. You should be grateful.”
That was Preston in one line.
He believed money excused everything.
Betrayal, lies, disappearing for nights at a time.
He thought throwing money around made him a good husband.
And my parents, they ate it up.
They didn’t see the arrogance, the coldness.
They saw the mortgage checks clearing and called it love.
Meanwhile, I was breaking.
When Ella was born, I thought maybe he’d change, that being a father might soften him.
But nothing changed. If anything, it got worse.
So, I left.
And here’s where people sometimes ask, “Didn’t you get a huge payout in the divorce?”
No, I didn’t.
There was a prenup. I walked away with almost nothing.
And I didn’t fight for more because here’s the truth.
I didn’t want Preston anywhere near Ella.
If I dragged him into court, demanded alimony or child support, he’d have demanded something back. Visitation, custody, time with her.
And I didn’t want my daughter anywhere near a man who thought cheating was no big deal, who thought money bought him a free pass.
So, I let it go.
I took a promotion at work, stood on my own two feet, and promised myself Ella was better off without him.
But to my parents, I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t protecting my child.
I was selfish.
Because when I left Preston, I didn’t just cut him out of my life.
I cut off their golden goose.
And they never forgave me for that.
After the divorce, I tried to keep the peace out of habit, out of guilt, out of that old voice in my head that said, “A good daughter helps her family.”
So, even though I wasn’t rich, I sent my parents money every month toward their mortgage.
I covered utilities when I could.
Sometimes when Briana complained about school supplies or bills, I helped with Paige and Lucas.
She’d studied art and worked as an art teacher in a school, and she wasn’t making much, so she always seemed to need a little extra.
It wasn’t much, nothing like Preston had given them, but it kept them afloat.
Looking back, maybe that was my mistake.
Maybe I should have cut them off then, but I didn’t because I still wanted Ella to have grandparents.
I still wanted her to grow up with cousins.
And I thought, stupidly, that if I kept giving, maybe one day they’d finally see me as enough.
Then came Steven.
If Preston was fire, all flash, all destruction, Steven was solid ground.
Middle class, steady, thoughtful, no yacht parties, no flashy suits.
But he showed up.
He kept his word.
And he loved Ella like she was his own.
He came into her life when she was two. By the time she was old enough to remember, he was the one tucking her in at night, the one cheering at her school plays.
And my parents, they never warmed to him.
“He’s not her father,” my mother would say, like that settled it.
It didn’t matter that Preston had been a disaster or that Steven had been raising Ella for years.
To them, biology was all that counted.
May you like
Which brings me to Miami.
It started like this.
