For most of my life, I was “the responsible one.” At sixteen, I did the taxes. At seventeen, I paid the bills while my parents partied. By thirty, I’d built a peaceful life, working long hours and buying my own modest home. Still, I helped them—and my younger sister, Claire—whenever they needed it.
That changed when I overheard my parents scheming. On speakerphone, Mom laughed, “Just a little more guilt and she’ll sign the house over. Then we can move in with Claire and the baby.” Dad agreed: “She doesn’t need it anyway—she has no kids. Let her work while we build something real.”
My chest tightened. The home I’d sacrificed for—they planned to trick me into giving it away. So, I set a trap. I lured Claire to a “meeting,” offering her my house and car in exchange for placing our parents in a retirement facility. She instantly agreed.
At that moment, I opened the adjoining door. Our parents stood frozen, betrayed.
I picked up my bag. “None of you will ever set foot in my house again.”
