"Be a Good Big Sister. Give Him to Me."
Avery, I’m coming to Veridia City.
The voice on the other end of the line was my mother's, thin and sharp, a familiar prelude to an unreasonable demand.
And your Uncle Rick’s family is with me.
I stayed silent, leaning against the cool glass of my new, empty apartment, watching the city lights begin to twinkle below.
My silence was a mistake. It was always a mistake. It was an invitation.
"Clear out your master bedroom for them. They'll need the space."
Not a request. An order.
I took a slow breath, the smell of fresh paint filling my lungs. A smell of freedom, of a life I was building for myself, by myself.
"No."
The word was quiet, but it landed in the ensuing silence like a brick through a window.
"What did you say?" Janice Kenyon's voice crackled with disbelief.
"I said no, Mom," I repeated, my own voice firmer this time. "There are plenty of hotels in Veridia City. I can help you book one."
"Hotels? Are you out of your mind? He's your uncle! My only brother! You think I'd let my family stay in some sterile, soulless hotel when my own daughter has a brand-new apartment?"
I almost laughed. "This apartment is sterile and soulless *precisely* because I haven't moved in yet. It's an active construction site."
"Don't you get smart with me, young lady!" The shouting started, right on schedule. "After everything we've done for you, you think you can go to the big city and forget where you come from? You think you're better than us now, is that it?"
It was the same old script. The one she’d been reading from for twenty years. Any assertion of my own needs was a betrayal. Any boundary was an insult.
"This has nothing to do with being better," I said, my patience fraying. "This is about my home. A home I bought with my own money. Money I earned."
"Oh, your money!" she scoffed. "If it weren't for us feeding you, clothing you, raising you, you wouldn't have a penny to your name! We are the reason you have that fancy job!"
The call ended, as it always did, with her hanging up on me in a blaze of fury.
Minutes later, a notification popped up on my phone. A post in the family group chat. It was a photo of my new apartment key, the one I had excitedly posted on my private social media an hour ago.
Her caption read: "So proud of my daughter! Can't wait for our whole family to visit and make some memories in her beautiful new home!"
The comments were already flooding in from relatives I hadn't spoken to in years.
Aunt Rochelle, my uncle’s wife: "That's so wonderful! A big city house! Is it big enough for Brayden when he goes to college?"
Uncle Rick: "Of course it is! Our Avery would never forget her favorite cousin."
They weren't asking. They were claiming.
They thought this was a negotiation.
It wasn’t.
It was a declaration of war.
§02
They arrived two days later, not with a call from the lobby, but with a series of loud, insistent bangs on my door.
I opened it to a mountain of cheap, oversized luggage and the triumphant faces of my mother, my uncle Rick, my aunt Rochelle, and their teenage son, Brayden.
"See? I told you she'd be home," Janice said, pushing past me as if I were a doorman. "Stop being so dramatic."
Rochelle followed, her eyes scanning my current, much smaller apartment with a look of undisguised disdain. "This is it? I thought you were doing well for yourself."
She was wearing a pair of scuffed, faux-leather heels. Without a word, she kicked them off and, in her stockinged feet, stepped directly onto my ivory velvet sectional sofa.
It was an indulgence, a deliberate rebellion against the practical, drab furniture of her childhood. And now it had footprints on it.
"Nice and soft," she declared, bouncing slightly. "Brayden, come try it!"
My cousin, a lanky boy with a permanent sneer, threw his backpack onto my clean floor and flopped onto the sofa beside his mother.
"Don't you knock before entering someone's home?" My voice was colder than I intended.
Rick, a man with a perpetually greasy smile, just laughed and opened my refrigerator. "Come on, Ave. We're family."
A fire was building in my chest. My mother, sensing it, dug her nails into my arm. "Behave," she hissed. "They're your elders."
This was the core of my mother's philosophy. Family was not about love or respect; it was a rigid hierarchy based on age and gender, and I was at the bottom. My role was to give. Theirs was to take.
Then, Rochelle did something that tipped me over the edge.
She picked up a cheap, insulated travel mug from her bag, unscrewed the top, and poured a small amount of a cloudy, brownish liquid onto the pristine fabric of my sofa.
The smell, sour and unpleasant, hit me instantly.
"Needs a little touch of home, don't you think?" she said with a malicious grin. "Makes it less… sterile."
I stared at the dark, spreading stain. It wasn't just a stain. It was a flag. A territorial marking.
I walked over to the front door, opened it wide, and pointed to the hallway.
"Get out."
My mother gasped. "Avery Kenyon, you apologize to your aunt right now!"
"She deliberately damaged my property," I said, my voice shaking with a rage so pure it felt like ice. "All of you. Get out of my apartment. Now."
Rochelle stood up, her face a mask of theatrical outrage. "Well, I never! After we came all this way to see you! This is the thanks we get?"
"You didn't come to see me," I countered, looking each of them in the eye. "You came to stake a claim. And you are not welcome."
Rick finally spoke, his greasy smile gone. "You're making a big mistake, kid. You're going to regret this."
I didn't back down. I held the door open until they had gathered their things, my mother sputtering threats and Rochelle muttering about my ingratitude.
As they finally shuffled out, Janice turned back, her face contorted with fury.
"You're a disappointment, Avery. A cold, heartless disappointment."
I closed the door on her words, the click of the lock echoing in the silent apartment.
Staring at the stain on my beautiful sofa, I didn't feel regret. I didn't feel sadness.
I felt the exhilarating, terrifying thrill of a battle just begun.
§03
My mother, true to form, refused to let the matter die. She decided we needed a "family dinner" to "talk things out."
What she meant was a public forum where she and her brother’s family could collectively pressure me into submission.
I agreed, but on my own terms. I chose the restaurant: "Aria," a place with a Michelin star and prices that would make their eyes water.
If they wanted a show, I would give them a stage.
When they arrived, their attempts to look unimpressed were comical. Rochelle ran her hand over the polished mahogany table, while Rick loudly questioned the waiter about the freshness of the seafood.
My mother, meanwhile, was already working on me. "Avery, you need to understand. Your aunt was just trying to be friendly. You overreacted."
"She poured a strange liquid on my brand-new sofa, Mom. That's not friendly, that's vandalism."
"Family is messy," she said, as if that explained everything.
The menus arrived, and my cousin Brayden, who had been silently engrossed in his phone, suddenly pointed at a picture.
"I want that," he declared. It was the "Prestige" seafood tower, a three-tiered monument to oceanic excess. Price: $388.
Janice beamed. "Of course, sweetheart! Get whatever you want. Avery's treat."
I didn't argue. I just nodded to the waiter. Let them dig their own graves.
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