Chapter 3: The Freedom Contract

Now, staring at the paper in front of me, I smiled, picked up the pen, and signed my name.

The pen felt heavy in my hand, but my signature was bold, decisive. I felt a strange sense of relief—like I was finally letting go of a burden I'd carried for too long.

"From today on, you’re free, Jamie."

My voice was soft, but it carried. I watched the disbelief flicker across his face, followed by a wild, almost giddy joy. I felt the weight lift from my shoulders.

He jumped up, shoes flying, clothes tossed everywhere, hugging a two-liter bottle of Coke, and rushed into his room to play games. After a while, he shouted from inside,

His laughter echoed down the hallway, muffled by the closed door. I heard the thump of his chair, the click of the mouse. For the first time, the house felt strangely empty.

"Grandma, can you order KFC? I want fried chicken—two pieces!"

His voice was bright, demanding, full of new freedom. I pictured him sprawled on his bed, phone in hand, already making plans for the night.

My mother-in-law, as always, agreed. "Okay! Whatever my good grandson wants, Grandma will get for him. Not like some people, who even nag their own kid about what he eats."

She shot me a triumphant look, as if she'd won some secret battle. Her fingers danced over her phone screen, already placing the order. I felt the old frustration, but this time, I let it slide off me.

She pulled out her phone to order DoorDash, giving me a look like she dared me to stop her.

Her eyes sparkled with challenge, but I just smiled, turning away. I wasn't going to fight this battle anymore.

Jamie hates sports but loves fried food. He’s about six feet tall but weighs almost 250 pounds—and his health numbers are borderline.

I remembered the doctor's warnings, the worried looks at checkups. I tried to help him, tried to steer him toward healthier choices, but I was always outnumbered. The family loved to indulge him, and I was the villain for caring.

I tried so hard to help him lose weight, cooked low-fat meals, but couldn’t stop his dad from giving him money for snacks at school. So at home, I usually didn’t let him have extra junk food.

I spent hours researching recipes, sneaking vegetables into casseroles, packing healthy lunches. But every time I turned around, someone slipped him a candy bar or a bag of chips. I felt like I was fighting a losing battle.

Over this, I’d fought with the family at least five times.

The arguments were always the same—me against the world. I raised my voice, pleaded, even cried, but nothing changed. The only thing that grew was the distance between us.

My mother-in-law, seeing I didn’t react, deliberately said to my father-in-law, "Look, I ordered two pieces of fried chicken for Jamie!"

Her voice was loud, almost gleeful. She wanted me to snap, to prove her point. But I just smiled, refusing to give her the satisfaction.

Her voice was loud, as if she wanted to make sure I heard.

She glanced over her shoulder, eyes glinting. I could almost hear her thinking, "Try and stop me."