My Sister’s Daughter Shoved The Leftovers Onto My Plate And Said, “Mom Says You’re Not Really Family.” I Didn’t React. Later That Night, After The Family Dinner, Mom Texted The Group Chat: “We Need Space Right Now.” Dad And My Sister Liked It. I Smiled And Replied: “Understood. Anything In My Name Will Be Updated Tomorrow.” Then I Left The Group.

So, I signed as the primary on the lease. The payment withdraws from my account automatically. The registration, the higher insurance rate, and the tolls from her weekend trips to the shore all hit cards in my name.

When Morin’s part-time job stopped offering benefits, I added her to the health plan at my company. The premium comes out of my paycheck, and the co-pays go on my card. When Philip’s blood pressure prescription went up in price, I told the pharmacy to keep his card on file under mine so he would not stress about it.

Even Alana’s after-school program—the coding club Desiree brags about to her friends—is billed directly to me. The monthly fee looks small if you stare at it alone. It does not look small when you stack it next to the phone family plan, the internet that runs through my name, and the subscriptions everyone logs into from their living rooms while I eat leftovers over the sink.

None of this was ever framed as a request. At first, it sounded like flattery. You’re so organized, Wit.

You’re good with money. We’d be lost without you. Those sentences were the wrapping paper.

Inside them was the same assumption every time: I would fix it, because that is what I do. Over time, there stopped being conversations at all. Bills simply migrated toward me.

Notices got forwarded, login changed hands, and somehow I ended up as the person whose name appeared on everything important while being treated like a guest at every family event. Desiree’s emergencies were treated like natural disasters. My overtime and second jobs were treated like weather.

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