“Katie! Wake up!” I jolted awake at 5:10 a.m. to my mother shaking my shoulder. “What?” I groaned. “Is something wrong?”
“Gwen wants a McMuffin. McDonald’s opens at six.”
I blinked. “And…?”
“You need to go get it.”
“What?!”
“I have book club at eight. Tyler has an early meeting. You’ll handle it.”
“But I have class at nine—”
“She’s pregnant with your niece or nephew!” Mom snapped. “Get up. Now.”
So there I was, shivering in the dark outside McDonald’s before sunrise, waiting for the doors to open so I could buy my sister-in-law a McMuffin for her craving. When I finally got back, Gwen took one bite, wrinkled her nose, and pushed it away. “It’s cold. I don’t want it anymore.” I stood there exhausted, late, and furious as she walked off.
Mom shot me a glare. “You should’ve driven faster.” That was only the start.
Somehow, Gwen’s pregnancy turned me into the household chauffeur, cook, and emotional punching bag. Any attempt to push back was shut down instantly with, “She’s pregnant!”—as if those words excused every demand, every insult, and every ounce of disrespect.
A few weeks later, my birthday passed with almost no acknowledgment. The only bright spot was my friend Zoe, who dropped by with homemade cupcakes—my favorite chocolate ones topped with cream cheese frosting. “Save one for me,” I told Mom as I headed out for my part-time shift.
Eight hours later, I came home to an empty box. “Where are my cupcakes?” I asked, even though I already knew. Gwen walked past, rubbing her slightly rounded stomach. “Oh, they were so good. I couldn’t stop myself.”
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