But then I’d remember washing Brandon’s gross jockstraps at midnight while Tracy criticized my folding technique. I’d remember Sierra tossing clothes at me like I was a hotel maid. I’d remember Tracy’s fake concern about my “anger issues” when really she just wanted me out so she could keep living rent-free in the house my grandparents bought.
I’d remember my own father saying, “Maybe it would be better for everyone if you moved out,” instead of, “You’ve lived through enough.”
They screwed around.
They found out.
Karma doesn’t care if your Gucci slides are real or fake. It’ll knock you on your butt either way.
So yeah.
My stepmom demanded I pay $800 rent.
I evicted her, her freeloading kids, and—eventually—the version of my dad who refused to see me.
Now I live in a house that’s too big for me, learning to fill it with people who actually care.
Like my mom’s best friend, who makes sure there are always cookies in the jar and reminds me that my mom would be proud.
And maybe one day, when I have kids of my own, I’ll tell them about their great-grandparents. About how they saw the storm coming and built a shelter made of paperwork and love.