Part 2The Price of a Welcome

I was lost in this sweet, nostalgic daydream when Mike's cold demand for gas money shattered it completely.

What did being "married now" have to do with anything? Was I no longer my parents' daughter, his sister? Was I not family anymore?

My brow furrowed. "I'm married, Mike, not disowned. Do you charge Mom and Dad for rides?"

He scoffed. "That's different. They're my immediate family. You're married off, you belong to someone else's family now. If you use our family's resources, you've got to pay up."

I was shaking with anger. Before Lily was born, I used to drive myself home all the time. Every single visit, my car was loaded with gifts: wine for Dad, new kitchen gadgets for Mom, the latest video game for Mike. I never once asked him to chip in for the things I brought for him.

And now, for one ride, he was demanding a price that was probably more than the actual cost.

On what planet was that fair?

"I'm not paying," I said, my voice firm.

Mike has a stubborn streak and a short fuse. My refusal instantly made his face darken. "Oh, you are paying. Today. You used my car, you pay the fee."

I let out a cold laugh. "Fine. First, you can pay me back the three thousand dollars I gave you. Then we'll talk about your eighty-dollar fee."

The car he was driving? I'd paid for a third of it.

The first year after I graduated and got a job, Dad had mentioned they were thinking of buying a car. It wasn't convenient living in the suburbs without one. Just a trip to the grocery store was a twenty-minute walk each way. I remembered Mom coming home, her fingers red and indented from the heavy grocery bags.

Without a second thought, I gave them all of my savings at the time. The car cost nine thousand dollars. I paid three, my parents paid three, and Mike paid three. Except Mike didn't have the money, so he "borrowed" it from our parents. The car was supposed to be in Dad's name, but somehow, the title ended up in Mike's. I have no idea if he ever paid Mom and Dad back.

"You have some nerve," Mike sneered, "asking for that three grand back after all the money this family spent raising you." He lifted the lid of the soup pot, pointing at the chicken. "This chicken cost twenty-five bucks. It was for you. You can pay for that, too."

I was about to explode. We were both their children. Why did Mike automatically assume that everything in this house belonged to him?

I was about to let him have it when Mom pushed him out of the kitchen. "What is wrong with you? Asking your own sister for money? Get out!"

She tore a big, juicy chicken leg from the bird and pressed it into my hand. "Sweetheart, don't mind your brother. His freelance work has been slow, and he's stressed. You just eat. I raised this chicken myself, he doesn't get a say."

I lifted the chicken leg to my lips.

Just then, Dad's voice boomed from the other room. "What is all this? Why is every one of these suitcases filled with baby stuff?"