You ever look at your savings account and realize you’re basically a glorified ATM for your own mother? It’s 2 AM and the blue light from the banking app is searing my retinas. I’m thirty. I’m supposed to be looking at mortgage rates and kitchen islands. Instead, I’m calculating if I can survive on instant ramen until the next paycheck because "The Dragon" at the local casino had a lucky streak that wasn't hers. It's called *intergenerational trauma* but honestly, it just feels like being robbed by someone you love. You remember the smell of her apartment after a bad weekend. It’s stale incense and that cheap menthol cigarette smoke that clings to the curtains. She doesn’t look at you when you hand over the envelope. She just sighs and talks about how your father would be proud. My father. The man who made me promise on his deathbed that I’d "keep the roof over her head." He didn't mention the roof would be funded by my Zillow dreams and the down payment I’ve been building since I started teaching six years ago. Talk about a *binding contract* you never actually signed. Teaching middle school is great because you spend eight hours a day explaining consequences to twelve-year-olds while your own life is a total dumpster fire of *enabling behavior*. You stand at the whiteboard, smelling like Expo markers and exhaustion, telling a kid why they can't just ignore their homework. Then you go home and ignore the fact that your mother spent three grand on "investment opportunities" at the baccarat table. It’s funny, in a "I might have a mental breakdown in the faculty lounge" kind of way. You get these texts. "Just a little help this month." "The landlord is being difficult again." "I’m your mother, I sacrificed everything for you." That’s the heavy hitter. The immigrant parent special. They come over with nothing but a suitcase and a dream, and suddenly you’re the one paying the interest on that dream thirty years later. It’s a classic case of *projective identification*. She’s the victim, and I’m the villain if I say no. So I don’t. I just click 'transfer.' I remember this one Tuesday. I had finally hit twenty thousand in the "House Fund" sub-account. I was actually looking at townhomes near the park with the big windows. Then the phone rang. She was crying so hard she couldn't breathe. Some guy named Marco was calling her house phone. She’d "borrowed" from the wrong person to chase a loss. You know that feeling when your stomach just drops through the floor? I watched that twenty thousand vanish in four separate wire transfers. My future just... evaporated. Poof. Gone to settle a tab for a woman who thinks luck is a personality trait. People at work ask why I don't go out for happy hour or why I’m still driving a Honda that sounds like a lawnmower with a death wish. I tell them I’m "frugal." I’m not frugal. I’m being bled dry by a *repetition compulsion* I can’t break. I’m thirty years old and I feel like I’m eighty. I’m the parent. I’ve been the parent since I was twelve and had to translate her tax forms because her English "wasn't good enough" for the IRS. It’s a permanent state of *hyper-vigilance*. You’re always waiting for the next crisis. The next "emergency." Sometimes you wonder if you even have a personality outside of being a provider. If I stopped paying, who would I be? A teacher with a nice house and a retirement fund? That feels like a stranger. It feels wrong. Like I’m betraying a ghost. My dad’s face is the last thing I see before I fall asleep, and he’s always nodding, like *good girl, keep the peace*. It’s a *sunk cost fallacy* that’s lived in my marrow since the funeral. You can't outrun a promise made to a dying man, even if that man didn't know his wife was a gambling addict. I saw her yesterday. She bought a new purse. A designer one. "It was on sale," she said. She didn't mention the rent I paid two days prior. I just sat there and drank my tea. My hands were shaking. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her that purse is exactly three months of my freedom. But I didn't. I just asked if she wanted more sugar. It's a *dissociative* experience. You're watching yourself be a doormat in high definition and you still can't move. You ever feel like your life is just a series of checks you're writing to buy back your own guilt? I don’t even know what I’m guilty of. Being born? Having a steady job? Not being the one with the addiction? It’s 2:30 AM now. The math still doesn't add up. My savings is back to four digits. Most of that is for my own rent. I’m one bad "investment" of hers away from being evicted myself. It’s hilarious. Truly. A thirty-year-old "professional" with a Master's degree and zero assets. I’m tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes. The kind of tired that’s in your bones. I’ll go to work tomorrow. I’ll teach the kids about the Great Depression. I’ll make a joke about how I’m living through one. They’ll laugh. I’ll laugh. Then I’ll come home and wait for the "PING" of a text message. You know it’s coming. You always know. And you’ll click it. Because that’s the deal. That’s the *pathological* reality of being the "good" daughter. You just keep paying until there’s nothing left to take...