Chapter 4 - Whose Kids Are They
One Wednesday I got home after seven, having spent ten straight hours untangling a hospital software rollout that had gone sideways twice that day. My head was pounding. I dropped my bag in the hall.
The kids were on the living room floor. "Megan!"
"Hi."
"We're starving."
I looked at the sofa. Renee was stretched out under one of my throw blankets, phone in her face.
She looked up. "Finally. Can you make them something?"
I looked at her — sweatpants, bare feet, hadn't moved in what looked like hours. "What did you do today?"
Her face hardened. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm asking."
"I was home."
"All day?"
"So?"
I looked at the kids, then back at her. "They're your kids."
Sophie looked down at the carpet. I regretted saying it in front of her the second it left my mouth.
Renee sat up straight. "Of course they're my kids."
"Then feed them."
"You're already standing."
I almost laughed. "What?"
"You just walked in. You're going into the kitchen anyway."
"No, I'm not."
Her face went red. "Would it kill you to make one thing?"
"I worked ten hours."
"And I'm going through a divorce."
"You were on the couch."
"You have no idea what I'm dealing with emotionally."
"You're right. I don't." I picked my bag back up. "But being emotionally exhausted doesn't make me your household staff."
Her mouth opened. My phone rang. Mom.
I looked at Renee. "You already called her?"
"I texted her."
Of course she did.
"Hi, Mom."
"Megan, what is going on."
"I just got home."
"Your sister says you're refusing to feed the children."
"Her children."
"Don't start."
"Start what?"
"This selfish attitude of yours."
I walked into the hallway. "Mom, Renee was home all day."
"She's going through an emotionally devastating season."
"So am I."
"You are not comparing your work stress to a divorce."
"I'm comparing my time to her time."
"Family helps," Mom snapped.
"I have been helping."
"So what's the harm in one dinner?"
That sentence nearly broke something loose in me. One dinner. Nobody counts the dinner before it. Or the pickup. Or the grocery run. Or the ruined Saturday. Or the interrupted work call. That's how unlimited obligation stays invisible — every single ask arrives alone.
I could have kept fighting. Instead I hung up, went into the kitchen, and made grilled cheese and tomato soup. Renee went back to her phone.
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That night I sat on my bedroom floor and admitted something that scared me more than the argument had. My family didn't think I was helping Renee anymore.
They thought this was simply my job.
