My parents sat me down to Sunday lunch to demand I cover my brother’s expenses after he was fired for negligence. They preached family loyalty, unaware that I had already sold my house and taken a job 30,000 miles away, leaving them with absolutely nothing. The migraine had started somewhere between the interstate exit and my parents’ driveway. It wasn’t just a headache. It was a rhythmic throbbing behind my left eye, a physical manifestation of the fear I felt every Sunday. I sat in my car for a moment, the engine ticking as it cooled down. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles had turned the color of old parchment. I was 34, a senior logistics manager at a national shipping company, and yet, parking in that driveway reduced me to a shaky, anxious child. I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I was pale. It had been three weeks since the doctor told me my cortisol levels were catastrophic, and two since I’d battled a terrible bout of bronchitis that still left me breathless if I moved too quickly. I was physically exhausted, running on caffeine and sheer willpower. I needed rest. I needed silence. What I didn’t need was Sunday lunch with the family.
I got out of the car. The air smelled of impending rain, and the thick, cloying aroma of my mother’s roast wafted from the kitchen window. That smell, usually associated with comfort, made my stomach churn. As I opened the front door, the volume of the television hit me like a punch. A football game was blaring.
“Mabel, is that you?” My mother’s voice cut through the noise, shrill and demanding.
“It’s me, Mom!” I yelled, hanging my coat on the rack.
I saw Jason’s leather jacket, an exorbitant purchase he definitely couldn’t afford, hanging carelessly on the banister. It slipped as I walked by and fell to the floor. I left it there. I went into the living room. My father, Robert, was leaning back in his armchair, a beer already in his hand even though it was barely noon. He didn’t look up. My brother Jason was sprawled on the sofa, looking at his phone, completely relaxed.
“Hey, it’s great to have you here,” Jason said without taking his eyes off the screen. “We’re starving.”
“I’m right on time, Jason.”
“Exactly noon,” I replied, fighting back a cough. I felt a tightness in my chest.
“You look terrible,” my father grumbled, finally looking at me. “Work is exhausting you again. You need to learn to say no to overtime. Family time is more important.”
The irony was so thick it made me choke.
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