My name is Lauren Cassidy, and I never asked to be a mother. But I became one the day my sister dumped her sick child on my couch for good.
Years later, when she tried to sweep back into his life for the glory, I handed him the keys to his new car and said, “Give them to the woman who raised you.” He walked past her without a glance, and she crumbled right there on the porch.
Tell me where you’re watching from in the comments below. Have you ever had to clean up someone else’s mess and then been told you don’t belong in the story?
Now, let me take you back to where it all began.
It was a Wednesday. Seattle gray, bone cold, and damp in that way the Pacific Northwest does so well, the kind of chill that soaks your mood straight through. I was in my apartment in Seattle, Washington, just reheating leftover soup when the buzzer rang again.
I didn’t even flinch anymore.
I knew it was her.
I buzzed her in without a word. Moments later, the apartment door slammed open, and there she was: Vanessa, my younger sister. She was balancing a purse too small to carry anything useful and dragging behind her a wheeled suitcase that wasn’t even zipped.
Perched on top of it, arms limp, was Dany, her ten-year-old son, my nephew. His lips already looked pale.
“You’re early,” I muttered, glancing at the clock. “I told you I had a call until seven.”
“I’m meeting someone,” she said, breezing past me, already halfway to the couch.
“It’s just for tonight.”
I turned off the stove. “You said that Monday. And Sunday.
And last Thursday.”
She didn’t even blink. “He’s got his meds. The nebulizer’s in the suitcase.
You know what to do.”
Dany didn’t say anything. He just shuffled to the couch like a ghost and curled up, wheezing softly. The sound sliced through me.
“Vanessa, no.
No, not this time,” I said, planting myself between her and the door. “You can’t keep doing this. He’s sick.
You can’t just—”
She rolled her eyes and gave that tight-lipped smile she always wore when I reminded her of real life.
“I need a break. I’ve been doing this alone, Lauren, for years. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, you mean the breaks between Cancun, Miami, and whatever yoga retreat you’re pretending is spiritual growth?” I snapped.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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