I showed it to Eli.
“What will you do?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I admitted.

“Take your time,” he said. “Whatever you decide, I’m with you.”

I tucked the letter into a drawer—not ready to respond, but not ready to discard it either.

Two years after the video, our family remained fractured. My parents rarely reached out. Amanda had moved away after her divorce to start over in another city. I heard she was doing better, and I was genuinely glad for her, even though we weren’t close.

As for me, I’d found peace—real peace. Eli and I bought a house with a big backyard. We talked about children, about the future, about building a family where no one would ever question their worth.

Looking back, I realized the video had never been about revenge. It was about reclaiming my voice and refusing to let my pain be erased. My family tried to rewrite what they’d done, and I refused to let them. I made them face the truth, even if it meant losing people along the way.

Three years after sending the video, I finally replied to my mom’s letter. I acknowledged their apology, but I was clear about my boundaries. I explained that any relationship going forward had to be built on honesty and respect—not denial or favoritism.

Two weeks later, my mom called.

“Taylor,” she said quietly. “I got your letter. You’re right. We have to take responsibility.”

I was stunned.
“Really?” I asked cautiously.

“Yes,” she said. “We’ve been in therapy. We see now how unfair we were to you.”

We talked for over an hour. She asked about my life. She admitted how painful it had been to confront their parenting choices and the favoritism toward Amanda.

“I was furious about that video,” she said. “But I finally understood—you did it because we weren’t listening.”

“I never wanted to hurt Amanda,” I said. “I just wanted you to understand.”

“I know that now,” she replied softly.

Over time, we slowly rebuilt. My dad apologized too, in his blunt, awkward way.

“We messed up,” he said one afternoon. “We should’ve been at your wedding. There’s no excuse.”

My mom admitted she’d been afraid to face what their favoritism said about her as a mother. It was painful work—unraveling years of patterns—but it was also healing.

Amanda and I stayed distant, exchanging occasional texts and birthday wishes. Maybe one day we’d be closer. For now, distance felt right.

Five years after the video, I stood in our backyard watching Eli play with our dog, Charlie. The evening light was warm and golden, cicadas humming in the background. We’d been talking about kids. Continue reading…