I took their money. For years. My parents, they still pay my rent. Every single month, a direct deposit. A thousand dollars. More sometimes. They think I’m struggling, a starving artist. (Graphic design, ha.) They believe it, this story I created. I let them believe it. My mother calls, “Are you eating enough? The landlord, he is good to you?” And I say yes, always yes. “I am so busy, Maman.” I lie. Every day. I have another business. An online store. Sells prints, custom invitations. Wedding stuff, mostly. It does very well. VERY well. More than enough for my rent. More than enough for my life. I save a lot. Invest it. They don't know this. They think I'm still trying to make it, still just getting by. (Like they did.) Their daughter, the freelancer. It’s what they want to hear. What they EXPECT. From back home, you always help your children. Always. It’s duty. Sometimes I think about telling them. Just once. But then what? The help stops. The phone calls change. The questions. “So, you don’t need us anymore?” That’s what they'd hear. Not success, not accomplishment. Just… rejection. Abandonment. (Their words, maybe.) So I keep it secret. Keep taking their money. Every single month. It feels like stealing. And I still let it happen. I still want it to happen. What does that say about me?