Cold pizza.
Spilled soda.
Grease.
Old food.
The living room looked like the aftermath of a college party.
Open pizza boxes covered the coffee table.
Paper plates sat on the couch.
Crushed napkins littered the floor.
Half-empty soda cups balanced on every available surface.
The television blasted some reality show at full volume.
My mother, Teresa, was stretched across the largest couch like she owned the place, wrapped in a blanket and eating potato chips.
My three sisters occupied the rest of the room.
Brittany sat taking selfies with a brand-new phone I was still making monthly payments on.
Kayla scrolled through TikTok videos, laughing loudly.
Lily complained that the pizza hadn’t come with extra cheese.
Not one of them was cleaning.
Not one of them looked embarrassed.
And every dollar supporting this mess came from me.
The rent.
The utilities.
The internet.
Mom’s prescriptions.
My sisters’ overdue bills.
