And I kept living like the unpaid servant.
By the time I was twenty-two, here was the state of things:
Brandon (25) had somehow graduated college two years earlier. I suspect money changed hands somewhere. He hadn’t worked a single day since. He was “building his brand” as a content creator. His TikTok had 247 followers. His Twitch streams had maybe three viewers at any given time, one of which was undoubtedly Tracy and another his alt account.
Sierra (21) was in her third year of college allegedly studying business. In reality, she mostly studied Starbucks orders and Instagram angles. Dad paid for her off-campus apartment near school—a place she barely stayed in because she’d rather be “home.” He paid for her car, which she’d crashed twice. He paid off her credit cards every month when she maxed them out on Shein hauls and Sephora.
My dad was 46, still working himself into ulcers running his consulting business.
Tracy was 43, sitting in my living room all day watching Real Housewives, taking selfies, and complaining about how tired she was.
And me? I worked part-time at Starbucks, did online classes, and did all the cooking, cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping, and general emotional management of the household. I also tried to save money, because Tracy had started dropping hints about “contributing.”
That day started like every other crappy day.
Some Karen (lowercase k, not to be confused with My Karen) had screamed at me because their almond milk latte had too much almond milk.
My feet hurt. My brain hurt. My soul hurt.
I came home, dumped my bag, washed my hands, and started dinner. Spaghetti. I’d found a recipe on TikTok that spiced it up a little with garlic and red pepper flakes, which meant I was absolutely going to get a complaint from Tracy because she “doesn’t like spicy food” and considers black pepper a risk.
I was stirring sauce, zoning out, when she walked in.
Tracy was dressed in what she thought was a classy navy sheath dress. I was ninety percent sure I’d seen it on the clearance rack at Ross, but she wore it like it was Chanel. Her hair was in that same precision bob. She had lipstick on, which meant she’d either filmed something for Instagram or was planning a dramatic speech.
She sat down on a barstool at the kitchen island, folded her hands, and watched me.
That was my first warning.