She’d make little comments about how lucky I was to have a steady job and no kids to worry about. I bit my tongue every time because I didn’t want to start an argument, but in the back of my mind, I kept thinking, “Why does this always fall on me?”
By the time dinner rolled around that night, I had a sinking feeling that something was coming. I didn’t know exactly what it was, but I knew it wasn’t going to be good.
When we all sat down for dinner, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to happen. You know when everyone’s acting a little too casual, like they’re all in on a secret except you? That’s how it felt.
Mom and Dad were chatting about random stuff, something about the neighbor’s new fence, and Martha was just scrolling on her phone. It felt forced, like they were waiting for the right moment to drop something on me.
Dinner was spaghetti, which is always my dad’s go-to “we need to have a family talk” meal. I don’t know why. It’s not like spaghetti makes bad news any easier to swallow.
I tried to just focus on my plate and not read into things too much, but then, about halfway through the meal, Mom cleared her throat.
“So, we’ve been thinking,” she started, glancing at Dad.
I froze. Nothing good ever came from those words.
“With Martha moving back home, she’s going to need some help,” Mom continued, her tone overly sweet.
“Help with what exactly?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad jumped in before she could answer.
“With the baby, of course. Martha’s got a lot on her plate right now, and it’s going to be hard for her to manage everything on her own.”
I glanced over at Martha, who was still scrolling on her phone like this conversation had nothing to do with her. She didn’t even look up.
“Okay, but what does that have to do with me?” I asked, setting my fork down.
My parents exchanged one of those looks like they were trying to figure out how to phrase whatever they were about to say.
“Well,” Mom began. “You’re already living here, and you’re so good with kids, being a teacher and all. We thought it made sense for you to help with babysitting.”
“Help?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Dad nodded enthusiastically.
“Yeah, you know, just keep an eye on the baby while Martha gets back on her feet. It wouldn’t be full-time or anything, just when you’re home.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“You want me to babysit a newborn on top of working full-time?”
“Well, you’re home by three most days,” Mom pointed out.
“And you’re not paying market rent,” Dad added, as if that was somehow relevant.
I stared at them, trying to process what they were asking. They weren’t just asking for a little help. They were expecting me to take on a whole second job for free.
“Wait, let me get this straight,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “You want me to come home from teaching all day and then take care of Martha’s baby?”
Mom sighed like I was being difficult on purpose.
“It’s not like that, Abby. We’re all going to pitch in.”
“All?” I repeated.