Last summer, I reached my breaking point. My children were getting older, and shielding them from my mother’s blatant favoritism was becoming impossible. When she called in March, like always, something in me shifted — we deserved better than being the family afterthought.

Using savings from my graphic design business and a small inheritance from a great-aunt who believed in my independence, I bought a charming beachfront resort just down the road from my mother’s house. Cozy cottages, a private sandy beach — it was everything her home wasn’t: warm, welcoming, and open to everyone.

I threw myself into the work, reaching out to friends, former clients, and anyone who might want a coastal escape. Within weeks, the place was fully booked for summer.

One sunny June morning, I called my mom. “My resort’s full for the season,” I told her brightly. “Just like your house, there’s no more room.” Silence followed — and for once, I felt the balance shift.

Even Olivia’s smug warning — “That’s quite a risk, Amelia” — couldn’t dent my pride. “It’s already paid off,” I told her. “Alex and Mia are having the time of their lives.”

And they were. That summer, my kids built sandcastles with new friends, ran barefoot along the beach, and laughed under the stars. I’d created more than a business — I’d made a place where they were valued and loved.