“40 summers left.”

That’s what I told myself.

In my 40s now, I figured—if I’m lucky—I’ve got 40 or fewer summers left on this planet.
So I started investing in what I thought mattered most: family.
I planned outings this year. I sold my car to a sibling at almost 40% off.
I thought: maybe this will bring us closer. Maybe this will tighten the bloodline. Heal the cracks.

But maybe we’ve all been through too much.
Maybe the hell we each survived made it hard to love, to protect, to show up for each other when it really counts.

And now, I’m sitting with a kind of heartbreak I didn’t see coming.
Not from strangers.
From blood.

Maybe this isn’t the way.
Maybe love isn’t always enough.
Maybe betrayal from family cuts the deepest because it’s the one you never thought you’d have to guard against.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s better if we cut each other off.
No more hurt.
No more pain.
Just silence.
And peace, if we’re lucky.

I don’t blame anyone.
I blame myself—for expecting too much.
For hoping too hard.

Maybe this is the end of hoping for me.
And the beginning of something new.

No more expectations.
No more investing so our kids grow up close.
No more caring beyond what’s asked.

Just independent living.
Just peace.
This is my new me.

From now on, I’m done giving more than I’m asked. I won’t chase what’s not meant to be. This is my boundary—and I expect nothing in return.