In the middle of Christmas dinner, my dad casually knocked my 9 year old daughter out of her chair, declaring that seat was only for “a real grandkid.” The impact against the hardwood sounded ice cold, and the relatives looked away as if they had seen nothing. I picked my child up, stared straight at the table, and said exactly four words, my mom dropped the glass in her hand and my dad went pale.

Sometimes, late at night, I sit at our little table with a mug of tea, scrolling through the comments on that old post.

People still find it.

They leave pieces of their own stories, like folded notes passed down a long row of desks.

“My brother is the favorite and my parents use money to keep it that way.”

“My mom says I’m ungrateful because I won’t let her babysit after she screamed at my son.”

“My dad’s will leaves everything to my stepmom and tells me to ‘be content with memories.’”

Over and over, in different words, people are asking the same question:

Am I allowed to walk away from people who hurt me if they’re family?

I don’t have a universal answer.

I just have this life.

This kid.

This small apartment where the loudest sounds on holidays are laughter and the occasional argument over board game rules.

If you’re reading this on a screen somewhere—maybe on your phone in a parked car outside a house that doesn’t feel safe, maybe in a quiet bedroom after another holiday that left you hollow—I hope you know this much is true:

You’re allowed to set a line.

You’re allowed to step back.

You’re allowed to decide that your kids will inherit something different.

For me, the first boundary I ever really set with my family wasn’t the lawsuit or the test or even blocking their numbers.

It was four words at a Christmas table.

You’ve been served, Dad.

Everything else grew from there.

So if you’re willing to share—just between you and whatever small corner of the internet you trust—what was the first real boundary you ever drew with your own family? Was it a word you refused to let them call you again, a holiday you skipped, a door you closed and didn’t reopen?

I ask not because your answer owes anyone a performance, but because sometimes saying it out loud is the first step toward making it real.

And whether you’re thousands of miles away or one town over, reading this at your kitchen table or on your phone in a parking lot, I hope one thing lands softer than everything else:

You don’t have to keep sitting in chairs that only hurt you just because someone else insists that’s where you belong.