I called my parents that night because I was desperate enough to hope they’d finally see the reality.
I explained everything. The mess. The late nights. The skyrocketing bills. The theft of my things. The disrespect. The laptop soaked in wine.
My mother listened with an exasperated sigh, as if she were hearing about a minor inconvenience.
“Accidents happen,” she said. “I’m sure your company has insurance.”
“It shouldn’t have happened,” I said, voice tight. “Because Vanessa shouldn’t have been using my laptop with friends and wine in my home office.”
“Lauren,” my mother said, in the tone she used when she wanted to shut a conversation down, “you girls need to learn to get along. You’re family.”
Family. Always the same word. Always the same excuse.
“And what about what I need?” I asked. The question surprised me with how desperate it sounded. “Does that matter at all?”
