Chapter 1

The front door of my childhood home opened, and my mother' s face soured.

"Sarah."

Her voice was flat, holding no warmth.

"What are you doing here?"

I stood on the porch, the familiar cracked concrete under my feet.

"I was in town for a meeting," I said, my tone even. "I thought I' d stop by."

She didn' t move from the doorway, blocking my path.

"We weren' t expecting you."

"I can see that."

Her eyes scanned me from head to toe, lingering on my business attire. It was a look I knew well, a mix of resentment and assessment.

"Well, you' re here now," she said, finally stepping aside with a heavy sigh. "Might as well come in."

The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of old furniture and something fried. Nothing had changed. The same faded floral sofa sat against the wall, the same dark scratches marred the coffee table. It felt less like a home and more like a museum of unhappiness.

My brother, Mike, was sprawled on the couch, his eyes glued to the TV. He didn't even turn his head.

"Hey, Mike," I said.

He grunted in response, a sound that was both a greeting and a dismissal.

My mother, Mrs. Miller, closed the door behind me, the sound echoing in the quiet house.

"Your brother needs a new car," she started, not even waiting for me to sit down.

There it was. The reason for any interaction. The demand.

"What happened to the one I helped him buy last year?" I asked, keeping my purse on my shoulder.

"It' s old," she snapped, her voice defensive. "Things break. You have a good job in the city. You make good money. He' s your brother, he needs your help."

Mike finally looked away from the screen, his expression one of pure entitlement.

"Yeah, Sarah. I saw that new car you' re driving. You can afford it."

I looked at my brother, at his lazy posture and the empty chip bag resting on his stomach. He was two years older than me, yet he hadn't worked a steady job in a decade.

"I work for what I have, Mike," I said simply.

My mother scoffed, walking past me into the kitchen.

"Don' t start with that nonsense. You' re family. Family helps family."

I followed her, my heels clicking on the worn linoleum floor.

"I brought some groceries," I said, placing the heavy bags on the counter. I had bought high-quality steaks, fresh vegetables, things I knew they never bought for themselves.

My mother peered into the bags, her lips curling into a sneer.

"What' s this for?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion. "You think you can buy our affection with some fancy food? What do you want from us?"

The accusation was so predictable, so deeply ingrained in our dynamic, that I almost laughed. For them, every action had a selfish motive. Kindness was a transaction.

"It' s just food, Mom," I said, my patience starting to fray. "I thought you' d enjoy it."

"We were doing just fine without your handouts," she said, pushing a bag of asparagus away as if it were poison. "You come here, acting all high and mighty with your city job and your expensive clothes, looking down on us."

The injustice of her words was a familiar weight in my chest.

"Looking down on you?" I said, my voice rising slightly. "Is that what you call it?"

I pulled my phone from my purse.

"Let' s see. Last month, I paid Mike' s overdue rent so he wouldn' t get evicted. Three months ago, I paid off his credit card debt, the one he racked up buying video games. For the last five years, I' ve been sending money every single month to help with your mortgage, a mortgage that' s only high because you refinanced the house to bail Mike out of another one of his failed business ideas."

I looked from my mother' s stunned face to my brother, who was now sitting up on the couch, a glare on his face.

"I' m not giving you handouts," I said, my voice cold and clear. "I' m cleaning up your messes. There' s a difference."

Suddenly, a heavy tread came down the hallway. My father, Mr. Miller, appeared in the kitchen doorway. His face was a thundercloud.

"What is all this shouting?" he demanded.

My mother immediately pointed a trembling finger at me.

"It' s Sarah! She' s disrespecting us! She' s throwing money in our faces!"

My father' s cold eyes locked onto me. He walked over to the counter, grabbed one of the grocery bags, and threw it on the floor. Oranges and apples rolled across the dirty linoleum.

"You ungrateful girl," he spat, his voice low and menacing. "After everything we' ve done for you, you come into our house and insult your mother and your brother?"

"Everything you' ve done for me?" I repeated, the words tasting like ash. "You mean raising me to be your son' s personal bank account?"

He took a step closer, his face inches from mine.

"You listen to me," he hissed. "Mike is the son of this family. He carries the Miller name. One day, this house, the business, everything will be his. It' s his birthright."

He gestured vaguely around the shabby kitchen.

"You? You' re just a daughter. You' ll marry and take someone else' s name. Your only duty is to support your family. And right now, that means supporting your brother."

The words were not new. I had heard variations of them my entire life. But hearing them said so plainly, with such cold conviction, solidified a decision that had been forming in my mind for a long time.

He saw the look in my eyes and sneered.

"Don' t you dare look at me like that. We are your parents. You owe us everything."