Part 1
On my flight to Scotland, my mom sent a flood of messages ordering me to cancel our $12,750 honeymoon and fly home to babysit my siblings or be cut off from the family. The first text hit my screen while Harper and I were standing in the customs line at Heathrow, and the first three words nearly buckled my knees.
“Emergency family gathering.”
Harper leaned in and read over my shoulder. I watched the last of the sleep-soft happiness leave her face and turn into something tighter, sharper, more familiar. We had been married for exactly twenty-one hours.
We had spent the previous nine months planning that trip to Scotland. We had saved $12,750 for the Highlands, distillery tours, castle stays, rental cars, and the kind of honeymoon that felt almost unreal to us because neither of us had ever taken a trip like that before. Before I could even fully process the first message, another one came through.
“Your sister Madison fractured her leg. Someone has to babysit the kids. You need to come home today.”
Not, “Can you come home?” Not, “Would you be able to help?” Not even, “We need you.” It was phrased the way a boss summons an employee, as if I were staff she could call in at any hour.
I had been the oldest of five children for twenty-nine years, but I had been functioning as a third parent since I was ten. That was the year my mother went back to school for her master’s in educational administration, which meant night classes three evenings a week and study sessions that devoured most Saturdays. My father ran a sporting goods store and worked long retail hours, especially on weekends and during the holidays. Someone had to stay home with the younger kids.
That someone was me.
Madison was seven then. The twins, Carter and Dylan, were five. Sienna was three. I learned how to make macaroni and cheese before I learned long division. I changed diapers while the boys my age played Little League. While other kids went to sleepovers and movies, I read bedtime stories and checked under beds for monsters.
By thirteen, I wasn’t just helping anymore. I was basically running the house whenever my parents were gone. I grocery-shopped with a list my mother left on the counter and cash she tucked into an envelope marked food money. I cooked dinner most nights—spaghetti, tacos, chicken nuggets, the kind of meals a kid could manage without burning down a kitchen.
I helped with homework, settled sibling fights, handed out Band-Aids and children’s Tylenol, and knew which kid was allergic to strawberries and which one refused to eat a sandwich unless it had been cut into triangles. My parents called me mature. Teachers called me an old soul. Neighbors said I was wise beyond my years.
Nobody ever stopped to ask why a thirteen-year-old was doing the work of two adults.
It stayed that way through middle school and high school. I couldn’t join the basketball team because practice ran until 5:45 and someone had to be there when the kids got off the bus at 3:05. I missed parties because my parents had a dinner out, a movie night, a work trip, an obligation they “couldn’t break.” Their idea of family time was me watching the kids while they went out together.
I got into Berkeley with a half scholarship. It was my dream school.
