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I can’t.

My knees buckle before I make it to the living room, bags of baby clothes still stacked like unopened memories on the floor. My hand slaps the edge of the kitchen island, knocking over Kingston’s favorite Bruins tumbler with a clatter that ricochets through the apartment and shatters whatever fragile calm I was clinging to.

I sink to the floor like I’ve been cut at the knees. Like gravity suddenly realized I’ve been pretending to carry too much and decided to call my bluff.

A sob escapes my throat, ragged and broken, the kind that sounds like it’s been waiting years to be let out. My arms wrap around my belly—around them—like I can shield my babies from the storm inside me. But I can’t even shield myself.

Tears spill, hot and relentless.

God, it hurts.

It hurts in that sharp, echoing kind of way that comes from knowing you were never enough for the one person who was supposed to love you unconditionally. It’s not just about today. Not just about her.

It’s everything.

It’s the weight of her disapproval stacked on top of all the other weights I’ve been lugging around like emotional bricks in a designer tote bag. It’s Kyle cheating and her blaming me. It’s never being as polished as Isabel or as ambitious as Sofia. It’s living in a penthouse and still feeling like I don’t deserve to be here. It’s growing humans inside me and wondering if I’m going to mess them up just by existing.

My breath comes in short, sharp bursts. I press my palms to the floor, the cool marble grounding me as the tightness in my chest expands and my vision blurs.

Inhale, Mya. Exhale.

I can’t.

I curl in tighter. My lungs scream for air, but everything feels stuck. My heart races like it’s sprinting toward a finish line that keeps moving.

And just when I think I might break apart completely, the truth cracks open inside me like lightning across a storm-heavy sky:

I cannot keep carrying her expectations and carry this life at the same time.

Something has to give.

And it won’t be me.

Not this time.

Not when I’m about to be a mother.

Not when I’m building something new, something real, with Kingston.

Not when I’ve finally started to believe I deserve to be happy, even if she never approves of the way I got here.

Even if I’ll never be enough for her.

I cry until there’s nothing left. Until the panic dulls into an ache and my body finally unclenches. I sit there, back against the cold cabinetry, salty tears drying sticky on my cheeks, and for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—I don’t feel ashamed of my breakdown.

I feel…lighter.

Like maybe letting it all fall apart was the first step in finally putting me back together.

And this time, I won’t build myself out of her blueprints.

This time, I’ll build something softer. Stronger. Mine.

For me.

For them.

For all the pieces of myself I’m done apologizing for.