She flashed that smug smile I’d come to dread. “Blame the baby!” I looked at Mom. She shrugged. “She’s eating for two.” That night, I bought a small fridge for my bedroom. By the next day, Mom had used her spare key to let Gwen into my room anyway.
“Family doesn’t lock each other out,” she scolded when I confronted her.
“And family doesn’t steal from each other,” I shot back. Tyler overheard and cornered me later. “Stop being dramatic. It’s just food.” But it wasn’t just food. It was about respect—something I clearly wasn’t going to get in my own house.
Everything finally exploded on a Thursday. I’d been up since dawn, scrambling to finish a project for my business class before heading to my part-time job at the consulting firm. I skipped breakfast and didn’t pack lunch. By the time I got home around seven, I was shaky and lightheaded from hunger.
I quickly made mushroom pasta with a creamy sauce—my dad’s recipe. The smell filled the kitchen as I stirred, my stomach aching. Just as I was about to sit down, my phone buzzed with an urgent email from my professor, followed by a call from my friend Kevin.
“Five minutes,” I muttered, setting the steaming bowl on the counter as I rushed off with my phone. Less than ten minutes later, I came back—and stopped cold. Gwen was sitting at the counter, my fork in her hand, more than halfway through my dinner.
“Gwen—what are you doing?” I demanded. She didn’t even look embarrassed. “I was hungry.”
“I haven’t eaten all day! That was my dinner!”
Her face collapsed into tears instantly. “I’m pregnant! I needed to eat!”
“Then make your own food!” I snapped. “You have hands! You’re pregnant, not helpless. You’re a grown woman—not a raccoon!”
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