But somehow, Owen remained untouched by it all.
It didn’t matter if it was a school day or the weekend.
He got to sleep in while I was up at the crack of dawn.
My mom claimed it was because boys needed more sleep during puberty.
Meanwhile, I was expected to set the alarm, make breakfast, pack lunches, and sometimes even make sure Owen’s homework was in his bag.
And if I forgot something?
“Laya, how could you be so careless? You know how much Owen struggles to stay organized, right?”
Heaven forbid he had to be responsible for his own life.
It wasn’t just the chores.
It was the way they talked about us.
One Sunday afternoon, we had family friends over.
My mom laughed and said, “Oh, Owen’s our baby. He’s got such a gentle heart.”
Then she looked at me.
“And Laya, she’s basically my right hand. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Mrs. Lawrence smiled.
“That’s wonderful, Laya. You must be so helpful around the house.”
I nodded, not sure whether to feel proud or sick.
I looked at Owen.
He was reclining in a lawn chair with a soda in one hand and a smirk on his face like he’d just won the lottery.
I think that’s when something inside me started to wake up.