“We’re not funding your law degree, Elena. Your brother needs it for his franchise.” She slid the voided check across the diner table without looking at me. I smiled, tucked it into my bag, and opened the envelope that would finally make them regret it.

I opened a small practice near my old neighborhood this spring. It’s just me, a desk, and a window that faces a row of brownstone buildings. My first client was a young mother trying to untangle her ex-husband’s credit card debt. We sat at a small table, drinking lukewarm tea from paper cups, and I walked her through every form. She asked me how I stayed so calm.

I told her the truth. You don’t get calm from yelling. You get calm from knowing exactly what you’re owed, and exactly what you’re willing to walk away from. I locked up at five thirty, turned off the fluorescent lights, and walked down the street. The evening air smelled like cut grass and damp pavement. I unlocked my car, tossed my bag in the passenger seat, and started the engine. The road ahead was clear. And for the first time in my life, it was entirely mine.