My mother had been buried less than three hours.
My brother was already pacing through the living room with a glass of my father’s good whiskey in his hand, eyeing the grandfather clock like he was shopping an estate sale.
For ten years, those two called me the freeloader.
The one who “never got her life together.”
The one who “lived off Mom and Dad.”
Meanwhile, they built shiny lives in big cities. My brother wore expensive suits and talked like every sentence was a boardroom speech. My sister turned her whole life into filtered photos and fake inspiration online.
And me?
I stayed in our little hometown in Ohio and watched my world disappear one piece at a time.
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