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?”

“Speaking of big things,” he began, “Vivian helped us sort through some complex mortgage paperwork last month. She’s been such a blessing. Truly.”

A chill, icy and immediate, crawled up my spine. Mortgage paperwork? Blessing?
Vivian’s grin widened, predatory and sweet. “It wasn’t a big deal, Dad. I just wanted to make sure everything was… secure.”

My fork froze halfway to my mouth.

Three years.

Three years of payments pulsed behind my ribs. Payments I had made quietly, sacrificing vacations, postponing grad school, and decimating my own savings because they whispered they were drowning. I drove a rattling car and lived a half-life so they could keep their whole one.

And now, they were rewriting the story right in front of me. Giving my blood and sweat to Vivian as a trophy.

A heat started building in my chest, rising like a tide of magma. My mother must have sensed the shift. She gave me that look—the patronizing tilt of her head that always warned: Stay in your lane, Nora.

Then she delivered the sentence that finally split me open.

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