If she wanted my toy, I had to share. If she needed the bigger bedroom, I was told to be understanding. If our plans conflicted, mine were the ones canceled. I learned very early that “flexible” in our family really meant disposable.
By twenty, I had built a life of my own. I worked remotely as a freelance writer, paid my own bills, and supported myself. But because I worked from home, my mother treated my career like a hobby.
“At least Savannah has a real life,” she would say at family dinners. “A husband, a child, responsibilities. What do you have?”
Savannah had married Blake at twenty-four and had her son Noah the year after. She lived the life my mother admired. I was simply the daughter who had not followed the script.
A year before Grandma’s birthday party, the family began discussing Grandma June living closer to us after my grandfather died. My mother held one of her “family meetings” with everyone except me. A few days later, she casually told me Savannah would check on Grandma twice a month and Blake would handle house repairs.
I asked, “What about me? I work from home. I could help.”