I’m unable to have children of my own.

Last week, during a family dinner, my brother leaned back with a smug grin and announced that one day, he and his wife would inherit everything from our parents.

He said it like it was some sort of triumph, as if having kids automatically made him more deserving.

Caught off guard, I turned to my mother and asked quietly, “Is that true?”

Her response cut deeper than I expected. “Why would we leave anything to you? You’re a d.ead end.”

The words hit me like a slap. My chest tightened, and I couldn’t speak.

I’d always known my inability to have children set me apart, but hearing my own mother speak so bluntly—like I no longer mattered—felt like being erased from the family altogether.

I didn’t argue.

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