She said it while juggling two plastic cups of hibiscus juice in one hand, a child’s backpack slung over her shoulder, and her two grandsons smearing refried beans across the couch that had been scrubbed clean barely an hour earlier.
In the middle of the disorder stood Diana, still dressed in her wrinkled public hospital scrubs after surviving a grueling twelve-hour overnight shift in the emergency room. Her feet throbbed, her body ached, and her mind was begging—desperately—for even a sliver of quiet.
Diana was twenty-eight, and in that exact moment, a painful realization struck her harder than her mother’s threat. In that house, she wasn’t a daughter. She wasn’t a sister. She wasn’t even a person with needs or limits. She was simply labor—unpaid, expected, invisible.
Her older sister, Melissa, sat at the cheap plastic table, fingers flying across her phone screen. She let out a short, dismissive laugh without even glancing up.
“Honestly, Mom should’ve been charging you rent a long time ago,” Melissa muttered. “It’s not like watching Jason and Noah is some big sacrifice—you just sit there while they play.”