almost choked on my drink. I was expecting a request for rent money, not a brand-new vehicle. Lauren gave an Oscar-worthy performance of humility. “I mean, I wasn’t going to ask, but it would make things so much easier. Just something simple, like a used Civic.” My mother jumped in. “It’s not that much to…
There it was. I glanced at Lauren, who was feigning surprise. “How do you mean?” I asked, playing dumb. “She’s been struggling to get to work and class,” Dad said, swirling his whiskey. “You’ve got a good job now. Maybe you could buy her a car.”
Top of her class. Professors say she’s got a bright future.” He then turned to me, a calculated look in his eye. “Ethan, don’t you think it’s time you helped out your sister a little?”
golden child; I was the “independent” one—a polite term for the son who didn’t get handouts. Sure enough, after a few drinks, Dad cleared his throat. “Lauren’s been doing great in college,” he announced to the room.
The moment I walked into my parents’ house for Sunday dinner, I knew how the night would end. The air was thick with the smell of barbecued ribs and my dad’s fancy cologne, a scent that always preceded a demand. My younger sister, Lauren, was the
And then, like a storm cloud darkening a sunny sky, she barged in. Her reaction was as immediate as it was appalling. “A GIRL?! That’s awful! I don’t even think this is my son’s baby!” she spat, her words dripping with contempt. It was an unforgivable accusation, a grotesque display of her obsession reaching its…
The tipping point arrived on a night that was both thrilling and terrifying. My husband was away on business, and naturally, that’s when my contractions began. The labor was intense, a whirlwind of pain and anxiety. Yet, when I finally held my beautiful baby girl for the first time, all the agony faded into oblivion,…
being of my baby. I bit my tongue through her unsolicited advice and incessant meddling, determined to keep stress at bay. But with each passing day, her antics grew more outrageous, testing the limits of my patience.
proclaiming them as rituals to guarantee a son. “A real woman gives her husband a SON. Only a son!” she declared emphatically, as if it were an undeniable law of nature. Through it all, I tried to maintain my cool, focusing instead on the health and well-
She took to rubbing strange oils on my expanding belly, muttering about their magical properties that would ensure a male child. To top it all off, she would light incense sticks and chant in the living room,