Then, softly, “If Mom were still here, she’d want you to help.”
The mention of our mother was like a hand closing around my throat.
“Don’t bring Mom into this,” I snapped.
“Why not?” she shot back. “She raised us to take care of each other. To put family first. That’s all I’m asking you to do.”
“No,” I said. “You’re asking me to sacrifice my happiness for yours. And I’m not doing it.”
She let out a brittle little laugh.
“Wow,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were so selfish.”
Selfish.
It hit like a slap every time.
“I’m not selfish,” I said, my voice steady even as my hands shook. “I’m just tired of being expected to clean up everyone else’s messes.”
“Fine,” she snapped. “If that’s how you feel, I guess I’ll figure something out on my own.”
“Good,” I said, and hung up.
The rest of the day, her words followed me from room to room. They clung to the fresh paint, to the new cabinet hardware, to the corners of the house where I had allowed myself to finally exhale.
Selfish.
Family.
Mom.
That night, after I’d eaten a dinner I barely tasted and washed dishes I barely saw, I poured myself a glass of wine and sank onto the couch. The lamp beside me cast a warm circle of light over the mantle.
In the center of that mantle sat a framed photo of my mother. She was mid-laugh in that picture, one hand raised as if protesting the camera, her eyes bright.
“What would you do?” I whispered.
Of course, she didn’t answer.
If you had asked me then, I would have said that was the worst of it. My dad’s audacity, my sister’s entitlement, the echo of a word I’d spent my whole life trying to outrun.
But my family has always had a way of turning one argument into a full-scale production.
A few days later, my phone rang again.
“I’m making spaghetti on Sunday,” Dad said when I answered. “You should come over. Melissa and the kids will be here. We haven’t had a proper family dinner in a while.”
His voice was light. Too light.
Every alarm bell in my body went off.
“I don’t know, Dad,” I said. “I—”
“You can spare a couple of hours,” he cut in. “It’s family.”
That word again.
Against my better judgment, against the small voice in my gut screaming that this was a trap, I said, “Fine. I’ll be there.”
When I walked into the house I grew up in that Sunday, it smelled like tomato sauce from a jar and garlic bread from the freezer. Familiar. Almost comforting.
Dad stood at the stove, stirring a pot with performative concentration. Melissa sat at the table with her kids, helping the oldest with homework while the younger two colored. She looked up when I walked in and gave me a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” I replied.
The kids barreled into me for hugs, their small arms around my waist and thighs making something in my chest ache. None of this was their fault. They hadn’t asked to be born into a family where secrets and guilt were as common as mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving.
We sat down to eat. The conversation was light at first—school stories, complaints about traffic, a neighbor’s new dog that wouldn’t stop barking. For a moment, I let myself relax. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe this really was just an attempt to smooth things over.
Then Dad cleared his throat.
He leaned back in his chair, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and looked directly at me.
“So,” he began. “I’ve been thinking about what we talked about the other day.”
My fork paused halfway to my mouth.
“What about it?” I asked, though my stomach already knew.
“The house,” he said.
Of course.
“It just makes sense, doesn’t it?” he continued. “You don’t need all that space, and Melissa could really use the help. It’s the least you can do for your sister.”
I put my fork down.
“Dad, we’ve already talked about this,” I said.
“We didn’t really finish talking,” he replied, his tone measured but firm. “Look, I know it’s a big ask. But Melissa’s family. Family helps family.”
He said it like it was a rule carved into stone somewhere.
I glanced at Melissa. She kept her eyes on her plate, her expression carefully neutral.
“I’m sorry you’re struggling,” I said, addressing her. “Truly. But this house is mine. I worked hard for it. I’m not giving it up.”
Dad’s face darkened, the muscles in his jaw flexing.
“It’s not just about you,” he said. “Melissa has kids to think about. You’re sitting in a five-bedroom house all by yourself. Don’t you think that’s a little selfish?”
There it was again, that word that had followed me since childhood whenever I tried to have something of my own.
Something in me snapped.
“I’m selfish?” I repeated, my voice rising. “I’ve spent my whole life being told to put her needs first. I’ve worked my butt off to build a life I can be proud of, and now you want me to throw it away because she made choices you don’t want her to face the consequences of? How is that fair?”
Melissa finally looked up, her eyes bright.
“Do you think I wanted to end up like this?” she asked, her voice soft but sharp. “Do you think I enjoy having to ask for help?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t. But I also don’t enjoy being guilted into fixing problems I didn’t create.”
The air in the dining room grew heavy, charged.
Dad leaned forward, his voice dropping.
“This is about family,” he said. “We take care of each other. That’s how it works.”
“Funny,” I replied, pushing back my chair, “how that only seems to apply when it benefits Melissa.”
His hand slammed down on the table, the silverware jumping.
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