For as long as I can remember, I was the family fixer. Not the adorable big-sister-who-braids-your-hair type—no, I was the one who paid bills at sixteen, made grocery lists by fourteen, and somehow became the third parent before I hit high school. While my classmates were learning algebra, I was figuring out how to keep the lights on when my parents took off on a whim.

They were adventurers, they said. Free spirits. Translation? Irresponsible. They drove to music festivals and spontaneous getaways while I rationed lunch meat and clipped coupons to feed myself.

Still, I didn’t complain. I thought I was helping. That someone had to be the adult, and since I had the bandwidth, it might as well be me.

By thirty, I had built a life that finally felt like mine. I worked long hours, didn’t bother much with dating, and poured my energy into a modest home I bought entirely on my own—no cosigners, no loans from Mom and Dad. A peaceful, three-bedroom haven where silence reigned, and everything was exactly how I wanted it.

Until the call came.

“We lost the house,” my father said, voice heavy with shame and something else—expectation.

They needed a place to stay. Old habits kicked in, and I offered without thinking. Within weeks, my parents were settled in the guest room, watching TV at full volume, making snide remarks about my quiet life.

Then my younger sister Claire entered the picture. Claire, the family golden child, showed up with a toddler on one hip and no intention of going anywhere. Her child’s father had vanished, and Claire, self-declared “full-time mom,” needed help.

I babysat. I stocked the fridge. I paid for everything. I told myself it was temporary. That family meant stepping up.