I never admitted to my parents that the “paycheck” they fought to grab was just a sliver of the wealth I’d quietly grown. My dad slammed my mouth into the dinner table when I refused to bankroll my sister’s extravagant tastes, and my mom cackled, branding me a “leech” who had to learn submission

We painted one wall deep green because she’d always wanted a dark color and my mother said it would “make the house look depressed.” We moved in a new bed, a secondhand desk, a better lamp, shelves for her art supplies. She pinned her drawings on the wall one by one with the concentration of someone declaring jurisdiction. Doorways. Birds. A girl underwater. A hallway full of light. A figure stepping through an opening into brightness so intense the edges blurred.

That first night, we ate takeout on the living room floor because most of the furniture still hadn’t arrived. Pad thai for me. Dumplings for her. We made a list of house rules on printer paper with a black marker.

No yelling.
No threats.
No scorekeeping.
Knock before entering.
If something scares us, we say it out loud.
No one owes the house their fear.

Lily added one of her own at the bottom.

No making fun of art.

I smiled. “That one stays.”