The table went quiet.
Dead silent.
Everyone just kind of looked at each other with these awkward expressions. Finally, my dad cleared his throat and said,
“Well, sport, this is really more of a trip for Olivia’s immediate family circle. The beach house only has so many rooms, and with Brad’s family coming, it’s already pretty tight on space.”
I just sat there, processing that they were calling it a family vacation, but I wasn’t included in the family. Brad’s sister’s kids were invited, but not me. Brad’s parents—who I barely knew—were coming, but not their own son.
“Right,” I said.
“Makes sense.”
My mom jumped in with that fake sympathetic voice she uses.
“You understand, honey? Olivia needs to be around her support system right now. And you’re so busy with work anyway. We didn’t think you’d even want to take the time off.”
They didn’t ask if I wanted to take time off.
They just decided for me that I wouldn’t want to come.
Or more accurately, they decided they didn’t want me there.
Olivia hadn’t said anything during this whole exchange. She was just pushing pasta around her plate, not making eye contact. Brad was scrolling on his phone like this was the most boring conversation ever.
Neither of them stood up for me.
Neither of them suggested maybe they could make room.
“Yeah, no problem,” I said.
“I’ve got projects at work anyway.”
We finished dinner with everyone pretending that incredibly awkward conversation hadn’t just happened. I helped clear the table like always, loaded the dishwasher like always, and drove home wondering why I kept putting myself through this.
But that wasn’t even the worst part.
The worst part came two weeks later.
It was another Sunday dinner, and they were going through final preparations for the Florida trip, which was happening the following week. My mom was making lists. My dad was talking about which restaurants they’d already made reservations at. Olivia was complaining about whether the beach house had enough outlets for all her pregnancy stuff.
I was sitting there quiet, eating my pot roast, trying to tune it all out.
Then Olivia turned to me and said,
“Oh, by the way, we’re going to need you to house-sit while we’re gone.”
Not asking.
Telling.
“You want me to house-sit your place?” I asked.
“Both places,” she said like it was obvious.
“Mom and Dad’s house and ours. We need someone to water plants, get the mail, make sure nothing looks vacant. You know—basic stuff.”
“Can’t you hire a house sitter?” I asked.
Olivia rolled her eyes.
“Why would we pay someone when you’re going to be here anyway? Plus, we trust you. It’s family helping family.”
There it was.
Family helping family—the phrase that had been weaponized against me my entire life.
They weren’t family when it came to including me in their vacation, but suddenly we were family when they needed free labor.
Something in me snapped.
“No,” I said.
Everyone stopped eating and looked at me.
“What do you mean, no?” Olivia asked like I’d spoken in a foreign language.
“I mean no. I’m not house-sitting for you.”