My name was Natalie Brooks. I was thirty-five years old, and the house they wanted was a four-bedroom colonial outside Denver that I had purchased after thirteen years of saving, overtime, and refusing every family demand disguised as an emergency.
Mom set down her fork and said, “Tomorrow we’re moving into your house. No excuses this time.”
Dad leaned back in his chair with a smug grin. “You’ve got plenty of room, Natalie. We’re tired of renting after everything we sacrificed for you.”
Across the table, my younger brother Caleb chuckled, despite still living in an apartment my parents partially funded every month.
I studied my mother’s face.
“You already signed a lease.”
She waved dismissively. “We’re breaking it. Your father needs peace, and you don’t need that giant house all to yourself.”
Dad nodded. “Besides, children take care of their parents. You should feel honored we picked you.”
For years, they took my bonuses, my weekends, my credit score, and my patience. Whenever I paid, they called it love. Whenever I questioned it, they called me selfish.
They borrowed money for Caleb’s truck, Caleb’s legal troubles, Caleb’s business courses, and Caleb’s endless “fresh starts,” while telling relatives I was cold because I didn’t visit often enough.
