“Content creation career” = lip-syncing in the same hoodie to trending sounds and rage-quitting Fortnite streams when a twelve-year-old beat him. “Focusing on her education” = posting “study vibes” pictures of flat-lay notebooks and then going to parties.
But I didn’t say that.
Yet.
“How much?” I asked, turning the burner down so the sauce wouldn’t burn. “How much rent?”
She brightened. She actually brightened, like we were negotiating a business deal she knew she’d win.
“We think $800 a month is reasonable,” she said. “Plus utilities. And of course, we’d still expect you to help out around the house. We’re a family. We all pitch in.”
Eight.
Hundred.
Dollars.
To live in a house my grandparents bought. The house I’d been cleaning since I was twelve. The house whose mortgage had been paid off before I even hit puberty.
Something inside me… snapped.
Not like a fireworks snap. More like a switch flipped.
Everything got very, very quiet.
I turned off the burner. Set the spoon down. Wiped my hands on a dish towel.
“Okay,” I said.
Tracy blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” I said calmly. “I think we should have a serious talk about my living situation. Let’s get everyone together.”