“Good. Then you understand the situation.” She adjusted the dish towel over her shoulder like a judge straightening her robes. “Either you help your sister with the girls, or you pay what everyone else would pay to live here. It’s only fair.”
“Fair?” The word tasted bitter in my mouth.
“I already pay rent,” I said quietly, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ve been paying rent for two years.”
That wasn’t true. I’d looked at apartments. I knew the going rates around Midtown and near campus. But arguing felt pointless.
Khloe shifted her daughter to her other hip and sighed dramatically.
“Honestly, Ellie, I don’t see why this is such a big deal,” she said. “You’re young. You have so much energy. I’m exhausted all the time, and I could really use the help. It’s family. We’re supposed to help each other.”
I stared at her, searching for any hint of self‑awareness, but there was none. She genuinely believed she was the victim in this scenario.
“I have classes,” I said. “And work. I can’t just drop everything to babysit.”
“Then drop work,” my mother said, as if it were the most logical solution in the world. “You don’t need a job. You’re living at home. We’re supporting you.”
Supporting me.