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\u201cMake what work?\u201d 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\u2019s eleventh birthday, a backyard carnival with a hired clown, while my celebration that same year was a store-bought cake in the living room. \u201cIt\u2019s just not in the budget for you, Posey,\u201d 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\u2019s first call wasn\u2019t to congratulate me; it was to Liana, to discuss \u201copportunities.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is my home,\u201d I said, each word carved from ice. \u201cNot yours. Not ours. Mine.\u201d<\/p>\n
I crossed to Liana and plucked the spare key from her hand where she\u2019d been fidgeting with it. Her fingers closed reflexively before releasing.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can\u2019t be serious about living here alone,\u201d Liana said, her forehead creasing with practiced concern. \u201cThis place has three bedrooms. The kids need space.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYour housing situation is not my problem.\u201d The steadiness in my own voice surprised me. It felt foreign, powerful.<\/p>\n
\u201cAfter everything we\u2019ve done for you?\u201d Mom\u2019s eyes widened, her hand pressed dramatically to her chest in a gesture of wounded motherhood I knew all too well. \u201cYour sister\u2019s children need bedrooms. Family helps family, Posey. You know that.\u201d<\/p>\n