I never admitted to my parents that the “paycheck” they fought to grab was just a sliver of the wealth I’d quietly grown. My dad slammed my mouth into the dinner table when I refused to bankroll my sister’s extravagant tastes, and my mom cackled, branding me a “leech” who had to learn submission

I knew it when I was sixteen and started bagging groceries after school because I wanted my own money. My father never once asked if I was tired. He asked what I was making hourly. My mother asked whether I was smart enough to hand over enough of it to help with bills. My older sister Madison asked if I could pick her up a lipstick she liked because I was “already out.” Lily, my younger sister, only asked if my shift ended before her homework time because she liked when I sat next to her while she worked. Even then, before I had words for any of it, I knew Lily was the only person in that house who ever wanted something from me that didn’t feel like extraction.