For most of my life, I’ve been the one holding everything together. Not the dependable kind of “responsible”—more like the survival mode kind. At sixteen, I was managing bills. By my twenties, I was skipping meals to stretch our grocery budget. Meanwhile, my parents lived on whims and impulse, taking spontaneous trips while I stayed behind to keep the lights on.
By thirty, I had finally found stability: a quiet home I purchased myself, a steady career, and the kind of peace I had always craved.
Then one Saturday, I overheard a conversation that shattered everything.
My parents were on speakerphone with my sister, Claire, unaware that I had come home early. I stood frozen as my mother said, “Just keep playing along—she’ll hand over the house soon. Then we’ll move in with you and the baby.”