For most of my life, I thought I was being helpful by taking on adult responsibilities for my parents and sister. However, when they encroached on the privacy and peace I’d built for myself, I finally decided to treat them like the adults they are.
I was always “the responsible one” in my family. Not in the sweet, reliable Girl Scout way, but in the gritty, unglamorous, do-the-taxes-at-sixteen kind of way. Sadly, the role I was relegated to would come back to haunt me in adulthood, forcing me to do something once and for all.
A little girl sorting through bills | Source: Midjourney
I was the little girl who had to handle the bills while my parents decided to go on last-minute road trips—and they forgot to invite me. As a middle schooler, I had to pack my own lunches. By fourteen, I was managing our grocery budget.
In high school, I made sure to pay the electric bill because my parents were halfway to Vegas. By seventeen, I was tutoring three kids just to afford a used laptop while my parents bought season passes to a music festival—again, forgetting to invite me.
A couple at a musical festival | Source: Pexels
I wasn’t bitter—not at first. I just figured someone had to be the grown-up in the family. That someone turned out to be me. But by the time I turned thirty, I’d carved out a quiet life.
I worked 60-hour weeks, didn’t date much, had no husband, no kids—just a steady job in logistics and a modest three-bedroom home. My simple house was acquired the hard way three years ago. Every cent came from savings or side jobs.
A quaint little house | Source: Pexels
I didn’t receive any handouts or loans to get my slice of heaven, but it was so worth it. I forgot to mention that I paid not only for my own rent and groceries, but I still “helped out” my parents and my younger sister.
