“Make what work?” The question hung in the air because, suddenly, I knew. The realization crashed into me with the force of a physical blow. A lifetime of memories flashed before my eyes: Liana’s eleventh birthday, a backyard carnival with a hired clown, while my celebration that same year was a store-bought cake in the living room. “It’s just not in the budget for you, Posey,” Mom had said, a phrase that became the refrain of my childhood. The pattern had never stopped. When I announced I was house-hunting, Mom’s first call wasn’t to congratulate me; it was to Liana, to discuss “opportunities.”

“This is my home,” I said, each word carved from ice. “Not yours. Not ours. Mine.”

I crossed to Liana and plucked the spare key from her hand where she’d been fidgeting with it. Her fingers closed reflexively before releasing.

“You can’t be serious about living here alone,” Liana said, her forehead creasing with practiced concern. “This place has three bedrooms. The kids need space.”

“Your housing situation is not my problem.” The steadiness in my own voice surprised me. It felt foreign, powerful.

“After everything we’ve done for you?” Mom’s eyes widened, her hand pressed dramatically to her chest in a gesture of wounded motherhood I knew all too well. “Your sister’s children need bedrooms. Family helps family, Posey. You know that.”