I remember the day I got the job offer like it was yesterday. My phone buzzed with an email notification, and there it was—the subject line that changed everything. “Exciting Opportunity: Offer for International Position.” My heart pounded as I read through the details. It was everything I had worked for: a well-paid position in my dream industry, the chance to live in a country I had always admired, and the opportunity to build a future on my own terms.

But before I could even begin to celebrate, reality hit me. My parents.

“You can’t just leave,” my mother had said, eyes filled with disappointment as I excitedly shared the news at dinner. My father sighed, shaking his head. “Family comes first, always. What will people say if you move away? You’ll be abandoning us.”

Abandoning them. The word echoed in my head. I had never once thought of it that way. Was it selfish to want more for myself? To take a job that promised financial security and professional growth? I wasn’t moving away forever, just trying to build something for myself. But their words weighed on me, their guilt wrapped around me like invisible chains.

They told me they needed me here. That I should stay because I was their only child, because it was my responsibility to take care of them, because family was more important than any job. They painted a picture of Sunday dinners, of birthdays together, of never missing important moments.

So, I declined the offer.

At first, I convinced myself I had done the right thing. I got a job here, one that paid significantly less but allowed me to stay close to home. I saw my parents regularly, helped with errands, and did my best to be the child they wanted me to be.

Then came the complaints.

“You need to start making more money,” my father would say, shaking his head as he glanced at my modest car. “Your cousin just bought a house. Why are you still renting?”

“Why don’t you travel more?” my mother would ask, scrolling through photos of distant relatives vacationing in Europe. “You need to enjoy life.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to remind them of the job I gave up, the salary I sacrificed, the life I could have had if I had just followed my own dreams instead of theirs. Instead, I swallowed the resentment and tried to work harder. I took on extra responsibilities at work, hoping for a raise that never seemed to come. I lived frugally, saved as much as I could, and wondered if I had made the biggest mistake of my life.

The breaking point came one night when I overheard them talking to my aunt over the phone.

“She should be doing better by now,” my mother said, sighing. “Other kids her age are successful, and we’re still waiting for her to settle down properly.”

I felt my stomach drop. After everything I had done, after sacrificing my own dreams for them, it still wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.

That night, I made a decision. I wouldn’t wait for their approval anymore. I wouldn’t live for their expectations. I had spent years trying to be the child they wanted, but it was time to be the person I wanted to be.

I started applying for jobs again—this time, abroad. I poured my efforts into my applications, reached out to old contacts, and prepared for interviews. And when the offer came, I didn’t ask for permission. I accepted it.

When I told them, their reactions were predictable.

“You’re being rash,” my mother said.

“What about us?” my father asked.

But this time, I didn’t let the guilt consume me. I explained that I had tried it their way, that I had given up my dreams once and it hadn’t made anyone happy—not even them.

They didn’t understand. Maybe they never would. But for the first time in years, I felt free.

The day I boarded the plane, I felt the weight lifting off my shoulders. As the city below me faded into the clouds, I realized something: I wasn’t abandoning them. I was choosing myself. And that was the best decision I had ever made.