“Until she gets back on her feet.”
“What does that mean?”
“Until she finds work.”
“Has she started applying?”
Mom’s face tightened.
“She’s going through a divorce.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Dad sighed.
“Shannon.”
“What?”
“This is your sister.”
“I know.”
“Her kids need stability.”
“I know.”
“So what exactly is the problem?”
The problem was that I knew my sister.
I loved her.
But Fiona had always been good at turning inconvenience into emergency.
When we were teenagers, if she forgot an assignment, someone else had to drive it to school.
If she overspent, Dad covered the card.
If she made plans before arranging child care, Mom rearranged her day.
Fiona was not incapable.
That was the problem.
She was capable enough that everyone stopped noticing how often she chose not to carry the consequences of her own decisions.
“I work long hours,” I said.
“They’ll be in school most of the day,” Mom answered.
“I sometimes work from home.”
“So?”
“So having four additional people here changes that.”
Dad frowned.
“Four?”
“Fiona plus three kids.”
“You make it sound like strangers.”
“They’re not strangers. They’re still four people.”
Grandma Beatrice squeezed my hand.
“You live alone in a large house, sweetheart.”
It was the gentlest version of the argument.
Because you are alone, what you have is less fully yours.
I felt the pressure closing around me.
Mom added, “Nobody is asking you to support them forever.”
Dad nodded.
“Just a roof.”
I looked around my living room.
My sofa.
My books.
My desk near the window.
The hallway leading to the two rooms I used as a guest room and home office.
I wanted to say no.
Instead, I heard myself ask:
“How long?”
“Three months,” Mom said quickly.
Dad looked at her.
She ignored him.
“Maybe four.”
I closed my eyes.
“Fine.”
Mom immediately smiled.
“Oh, honey.”
“But there are rules.”
“Of course.”
“Fiona needs to actively apply for jobs.”
“Obviously.”
“She handles her kids.”
“Of course.”
“She helps with groceries and utilities when she can.”
“Absolutely.”
“And my office is private.”
Mom nodded rapidly.
“Completely.”
Every promise sounded reasonable.
That was why I believed them.
The next afternoon, a rented moving truck appeared in my driveway.
Not the following week.
The next afternoon.
I had expected suitcases.
Fiona brought furniture.
Boxes.
Plastic bins.
Two lamps.
A television.
A sectional chair.
Six bags of toys.
The entrance hall disappeared behind cardboard.
Ava ran upstairs.
“Which room is mine?”
Fiona pointed.
“You and Ben can share the bigger one. Lucas gets the other.”
I looked up.
“The other room is my office.”
Fiona blinked.
“But there are three bedrooms.”
“One is mine.”
“So two spare rooms.”
“One spare room. One office.”
She looked toward Mom, who had come to help unpack.
Mom smiled awkwardly.
“Shannon, you can work downstairs for a little while.”
I stared at her.
“We discussed this yesterday.”
“It’s temporary.”
There it was.
The word that would eventually mean nothing.
I kept the office.
Fiona complained.
Mom mediated.
Lucas ended up with a foldout bed in the larger room with Ava and Ben until we moved another twin bed in.
Nobody was happy.
I told myself that was normal.
Transitions were uncomfortable.
By dinner, half my kitchen counters were covered with Fiona’s appliances and children’s cups.
Mom pulled me aside while Fiona unpacked.
“Can I ask one little favor?”
I should have said no before hearing it.
Instead:
“What?”
“Since you usually get home before Fiona does, could you make dinner for the kids?”
I frowned.
“Why would I usually get home before Fiona?”
“She’ll be job hunting.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Mom sighed.
“Shannon, just for a little while.”
“How little?”
“Until she gets settled.”
“I thought staying here was what allowed her to get settled.”
“You know what I mean.”
I didn’t.
But I nodded anyway.
Making extra pasta seemed harmless.
For the first week, it was.
I cooked dinner four nights.
Fiona cooked twice.