Here’s a rewritten version that keeps the same meaning: “You’re nothing like your sister,” my mom remarked at dinner. I pushed my chair away from the table and replied, “Then she can start covering your rent.” My dad went pale. “Rent? What rent?”

“Oh, don’t look so sour, Nora. You know how it is. You’re not half the woman your sister is.”

The room didn’t just go silent. It snapped.

The scrape of my chair against the hardwood was a violent scream as I stood up. Every unspoken word I had ever swallowed gathered at the back of my throat like a storm. For the first time in twenty-eight years, I didn’t push it down. I let it rise.

“If she is such an incredible woman,” my voice rang out, terrifyingly steady, “then she can start paying your rent from now on.”

Silverware clattered to the plates. My father went pale, his skin taking on the waxen quality of the candles.

“Rent?” he whispered, choking on the word like a gasp for air. “What rent?”
I looked him dead in the eye, smiling a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.

“The rent for this house, Dad. The bills that I—not your ‘blessing’—have been paying for the last three years to stop the bank from taking it…”

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