For the next few days, things were tense around the house. Mom and Dad were clearly mad at me, but instead of talking about it, they started with the passive-aggressive comments.
“Must be nice to have so much free time after work,” Mom said one evening as I walked through the door.
“Yeah, some people don’t have that luxury,” Dad added, not even looking up from his newspaper.
I ignored them and went straight to my room. At this point, I wasn’t interested in arguing. I knew anything I said would just escalate things, and I didn’t have the energy for it.
Martha, meanwhile, was living her best life. She wasn’t even officially moved in yet, but she was at the house almost every day, taking over the living room with her stuff and acting like she already owned the place.
She’d leave her shoes by the couch, her purse on the dining table, and random shopping bags scattered around like it was no big deal.
One night, I came home to find her lounging on the couch with a bowl of ice cream, watching some reality show. She didn’t even acknowledge me when I walked in. She glanced up, gave me a half-hearted “hey,” and went back to her show.
I stood there for a second, waiting for her to say something else, an apology maybe, or even just a thanks for not flipping out about the situation, but nothing.
I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and noticed that half of my groceries were gone. The bread I bought, gone. The yogurt, gone. Even my leftovers from the night before were missing.
“Did you eat my food?” I asked, walking back into the living room.
Martha didn’t even look up.
“Mom said I could,” she mumbled between bites of ice cream.
“She’s not the one who paid for it,” I snapped.
Martha finally turned to face me, rolling her eyes.
“Chill out, Abby. It’s just food.”
“It’s my food,” I said, my voice rising. “If you want groceries, go buy your own.”
“Jeez, you don’t have to be such a drama queen,” Martha said, setting her bowl down on the coffee table. “You’re acting like I stole your car or something.”
I didn’t even know what to say. I just stood there fuming while Martha grabbed her phone and started texting someone, completely ignoring me again.
I wanted to yell, to tell her how entitled and selfish she was being, but I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Martha had spent her entire life getting away with this kind of behavior because Mom and Dad let her. And now they were trying to make me part of the problem.
The next morning, Mom cornered me in the kitchen while I was making coffee.
“You need to apologize to your sister,” she said, her tone stern.
“For what?” I asked, genuinely baffled.
“For making her feel unwelcome,” Mom said, crossing her arms. “She’s going through so much right now, and the last thing she needs is you being difficult.”
“Are you serious?” I said, turning to face her. “She ate all my food and acted like it was no big deal. How is that my fault?”
Mom sighed like I was the one being unreasonable.
“It’s just food, Abby. You can always buy more.”
“That’s not the point,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “The point is that she doesn’t respect anyone’s boundaries, and you’re letting her get away with it.”
“Boundaries?” Mom said, practically scoffing. “This is her home now, too. You need to learn how to share.”