My name’s Laya, and by the time most kids my age were figuring out what they wanted to wear to school or who they were crushing on, I was already deep into grocery lists, dish duty, and keeping track of my little brother’s homework schedule like some unpaid assistant with a permanent smile glued to her face.
The problem was never just that they gave me responsibilities.
It was the way they never gave them to him.
Owen, my younger brother by barely two years, was treated like a prince. No, like a delicate heir to some invisible throne.
And me?
I was the handmaid that came with the palace.
I didn’t always resent it.
At first, I thought it meant they trusted me. That I was the mature one.
My mom would say it with pride in her voice, like it was a compliment I should wear like a badge.
“Laya always helps out. She’s so responsible. She’s not like other teenagers.”
And I believed her.
I wanted to be that person.
So I smiled when she handed me laundry to fold, even when it wasn’t mine.
I nodded when she asked me to prep dinner because she’d had a long day at work, even if I had just gotten back from a full day of school and volleyball practice.
I bit my tongue when my dad would walk right past Owen lying on the couch with his phone and say, “Laya, could you get your brother a snack?”
As if Owen had lost the use of his legs.
But even the strongest cracks under pressure.
And mine was quietly filling with resentment, drip by drip.
Every time someone handed me a chore and patted Owen on the back for doing the bare minimum, something inside me changed.
The house was always busy in the mornings.