But she didn’t need help.
She needed a servant.
Two hours would turn into six. A quick errand would turn into a whole afternoon. And if I asked where she’d gone, she’d act like I was a jealous little brother trying to control her.
“Don’t you dare lecture me,” she’d say, eyes flashing. “You have no idea what I deal with.”
My parents enabled every second of it.
Mom would say, “Your sister is going through a difficult time. Family helps family.”
Dad would grunt about how “real men step up” when family needs them.
Neither of them ever asked Jennifer to step up for anything.
Meanwhile, I was eighteen, paying rent, working twenty-plus hours a week, trying to save money for the gap between leaving and my stipend kicking in, and being treated like the household staff.
The moment it became impossible to ignore was a Tuesday in early June.
Jennifer asked me to watch Braden for two hours while she “met a client.” I had a shift at the auto parts store starting at four. She promised she’d be back by three-thirty.
Three-thirty came and went.
No Jennifer.
I called her. Straight to voicemail.
I called again. Voicemail.
I texted. Nothing.
By three-fifty I was panicking. I couldn’t leave a three-year-old alone. I couldn’t take him to work. I called my manager, Doug, and told him I had a family emergency. He sighed like he’d heard it before.
“You’re killing me, Blake,” he said. “I need you here.”
“I know,” I said, voice tight. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
When Jennifer finally rolled in at seven-thirty, she had shopping bags in her hands and not a trace of apology on her face. She breezed into the house like she’d just done me a favor.
“Traffic was crazy,” she said. “And my phone died.”
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