The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. I sat across from the lawyer, her desk cluttered with stacks of manila folders and a half-empty coffee cup. She adjusted her glasses and finally spoke, “Laura, I need you to sign this acknowledgment.” The paper slid across the desk towards me, the header reading: ‘Terms of Financial Dependence.’ My stomach dropped. “I thought… I thought this was just a formality,” I muttered, my voice barely rising above a whisper. She avoided my gaze, her eyes fixed on a spot just above my shoulder. “It is, in a way,” she replied, her tone rehearsed. “But it’s important you understand what you’re agreeing to.” I hesitated, my pen hovering over the signature line. This was supposed to be routine, just a confirmation of what I’d been told all my life—that I’d be supported, no matter what. “What happens if I don’t sign?” I asked, breaking the silence. She paused, her practiced smile slipping. “Let’s discuss that,” she said, leaning back in her chair. The air grew heavy as I realized the gravity of the situation. I needed answers, but the truth was buried beneath layers of legalese and obligation.
