At 5:06 a.m., my sister walked into the house I bo…

Christina was the one who got managed around. When Christina wrapped her car around a lamp post at nineteen after leaving a sorority formal angry and out of control, my parents called it a hard season. When she maxed out two credit cards on centerpieces and imported linens for a wedding she couldn’t afford, they called it bridal stress.

When Jonathan convinced her to quit a stable job because she was “meant for bigger things,” and those bigger things turned out to be brunch, shopping, and posting filtered photos of a life other people financed, that too became somebody else’s burden to carry. Usually mine. When my father had his bypass, I handled the insurance appeals.

When my mother’s medication changed and she panicked over every side effect, I sat with her through the night. When their old house became too expensive to maintain and too dangerous for my father’s mobility, I sold stock, emptied a savings account I had meant for myself, and bought a bigger place so they could live with me without feeling like charity cases. That house had never been a gift.