Then I noticed Rita wasn’t paying attention anymore. She had opened a luxury shopping app, her eyes lighting up as she scrolled through handbags, watches, and shoes, quietly repeating the name of a limited-edition purse she hoped would still be there.

While I stood a few feet away, struggling to stay upright through the pain, she was mentally spending thousands of dollars of my money.

That was when it all made sense. To them, I wasn’t a wife. I wasn’t a daughter-in-law. I was a driver with an unlimited credit limit. No argument would suddenly make them care.

No description of my symptoms would create compassion that had never existed.

So I stopped trying.

I let go of the counter and deliberately relaxed my face. “You know what?” I said calmly. “You’re right.”