They exchanged a glance before one spoke.
“We received a report of a possible domestic situation. Your mother called. She said you weren’t answering and was worried something happened to you.”
I frowned.
Domestic situation?
Me?
Me—the one they never called for, no matter how bad things got?
“Officer,” I said quietly, “I’m fine. I just changed my lock. I don’t want anyone coming in without my permission.”
One of them nodded.
“Would you mind if we stepped inside for a moment? Just protocol.”
I let them in. The apartment was calm—clean, no mess, no sign of trouble.
“Miss Reed,” one officer said gently, “I’ll be honest. This looks like a family boundary issue, not a safety issue. And if you had reasons to change your lock, you were absolutely within your rights.”
Warmth spread through me—not pain, but relief.
“We asked your mother,” he continued, “and she said, ‘It’s her obligation to help.’ What do you say to that?”
I stared at the floor.
I tried to hold back tears—but I couldn’t.
“Officer… my whole life, I’ve waited for them to love me. But I’m always not enough. Always needed… but never chosen.”
They listened in silence.
“And for the first time,” my voice deepened, “I chose myself.”
The officers exchanged looks. In their eyes, I saw no doubt—only respect.
“Miss Reed,” one said, “you’re not violating anything. If you don’t want contact, you can file a no-trespass request. And if you ever need support services, we’re here.”
After they left, I collapsed onto the couch—not from exhaustion, but from the weight slowly lifting.
As I cried quietly, a soft light opened inside me.
Just because they didn’t show up for you…
doesn’t mean you have to abandon yourself.
That afternoon, my mom texted.
“Camila, what is this? You embarrassed us with the police! Why are you treating us like we’re not family?”
But a different version of me typed the reply.
“Mom, we are family. But that doesn’t mean I have to put you first when it hurts me. I love you—but I need to love myself too.”
Typing bubbles appeared… then disappeared.
No reply.
For the first time, I didn’t sit around waiting.
I went outside. And as I walked toward the small café on the corner to apply for a new analyst position, I felt a strange strength in every step.
Not the strength of someone hoping.
But the strength of someone who chose herself.
At the café door, my phone buzzed.
A text—from Mom.
“Camila… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much you were hurting. Can we talk? Maybe just coffee?”
I didn’t know what would happen after that.
But unexpectedly, I smiled.
Not because I forgave everything right away.
Not because they had already changed.
But because I finally knew how to choose myself—
no matter who showed up… or didn’t.
And at last…
I showed up for myself.