My Sister Ripped My Passport and Tossed It in the Toilet to Force Babysitting — Italy Trip Ruined.
My name is Ava Monroe. I’m 23 years old and last week my family showed me exactly what I’m worth to them. I had just finished packing for my graduation trip to Italy, the one I’d been saving for all year, when everything blew up over a single small book with my picture in it.
I was standing in the hallway, flipping my passport open and closed, thinking about gelato in Rome and late nights walking through Venice, when my sister stepped out of the bathroom and blocked my way.
Before I could even ask what she was doing, she snatched the passport out of my hand, tore it straight down the middle, walked back into the bathroom, and dropped the pieces into the toilet like they were scraps of junk mail.
Then she turned, looked me right in the eye, and with this slow little smirk said, “There’s no trip. Your job is staying home with my kid.”
From down the hall, my mom didn’t even bother to come see what was happening. She just called out, like she was agreeing with the weather report.
“Exactly.
You should stay. Family comes first.”
I heard a couple of laughs from the living room. Like everyone thought this was hilarious.
Like destroying my passport and months of planning was just one big joke.
I stood there on the cold tile, my suitcase half zipped in my room, my flight to Italy already paid for, realizing that to them, I wasn’t a grown woman who’d just graduated. I was free babysitting that tried to escape.
I didn’t cry and I didn’t beg. I watched my passport disappear with one flush, grabbed my backpack, and walked out of that house without saying a word.
They thought that meant they’d won.
They had no idea that was the moment everything started to fall apart for them. Not for me.
If you’ve ever been told to throw away your dreams because of family, you’re going to want to hear how this ends.
Oh, understand how we got to that toilet and that flush. You have to know what my life looked like before Italy was even an idea.
I’m the younger sister, the one who moved back home to our place in Chicago while I finished my degree.
The one everyone calls when something goes wrong.
My sister Megan is 6 years older than me, married with a 4-year-old son named Oliver, who everybody calls Olly. When she had him, I thought I was just helping out here and there, a couple of afternoons so she could nap or run errands.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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