Then there was my sister Heather, twenty-eight, married to her high school sweetheart Keith, mother of three children she’d started having at twenty-one after dropping out of community college. Every Wednesday evening, she’d bring her kids over for “family dinner”—a tradition that somehow meant I cooked for nine people on one of my rare evenings home before returning to my office to catch up on work.
And every single time Heather walked through the door, my parents would light up like she’d personally hung the moon.
“There’s our girl,” my father would say, wrapping her in a hug while barely glancing in my direction. My mother would fuss over the children, asking about their days, their activities, their dreams, with an attention and interest she’d never once shown in my career accomplishments.
My best friend Zoe Curtis had been telling me for years that something was wrong with this picture. “They’re taking advantage of you,” she’d say during our increasingly rare lunch dates. “You’re supporting adults who should be supporting themselves. This isn’t normal, Audrey.”
“They’re my parents,” I’d reply automatically, that well-worn defense rising without thought. “Dad’s still looking for work, and Mom never had a career. What am I supposed to do, throw them out on the street?”
