I’m 34, childfree by choice, and have spent my adult life working hard, traveling, and investing wisely. I’ve never asked my parents for a cent, but they’ve made it clear for years that my ‘real job’ is to give them grandchildren.

When my younger brother had his first baby, they suddenly started talking about ‘family legacy’ and hinted that the vacation home they’d promised me since I was a teenager would now go to him—because ‘he’s keeping the family line alive.’

What they didn’t know was that I’d been quietly restoring an old countryside manor for over a year—one they’d always dreamed of retiring in. I had planned to hand them the keys as a surprise.

The day they told me the vacation home was no longer mine, I signed the final papers on the manor—and kept it. I filled it with my books, my art, my friends, and laughter that didn’t come with conditions.

They chose an heir. I chose myself. And my legacy? Living a life that’s entirely mine.