I’m Olivia Wilson, 28, and I’ve had my own apartment in Chicago for three years now. It was my sanctuary until that family dinner when my parents casually announced, “Your sister will live in your apartment.” I just sat there silently, fork suspended midair, while they continued outlining their plans for my space. One week later, they arrived with a car packed full of Megan’s belongings. But instead of me, a stranger opened my door.
The Unspoken Rule: My Sister’s Keeper
Growing up in the Wilson household meant understanding one unspoken rule from an early age: I was responsible for my younger sister, Megan. My parents, Richard and Catherine Wilson, established this dynamic when Megan was born, when I was just four years old. “Look after your sister, Olivia” became the soundtrack of my childhood, playing on repeat through elementary school field trips, middle school sleepovers, and high school parties.
My father, a successful accountant with a perpetually furrowed brow, and my mother, an elementary school teacher with endless patience for everyone except me when I failed at my sister-watching duties, created this unbalanced family structure that would follow us into adulthood. While other kids my age were enjoying carefree summer days, I was making sure Megan didn’t wander too far at the community pool or helping her with homework instead of finishing my own. This dynamic wasn’t something I questioned until much later in life; it was simply the water I swam in.
My journey toward independence began in high school when I started working part-time at a local bookstore, squirreling away every dollar I could. My parents found this amusing at first, my father often joking that I was “playing businesswoman,” but I was deadly serious about creating my own path.
College was my first real taste of freedom, though. Even then, my parents’ expectations followed me. I’d chosen Northwestern University, specifically because it was far enough from home to require living on campus, but close enough that I could still be summoned for “family emergencies,” which suspiciously often coincided with Megan’s social calendar. I worked two jobs through college while maintaining a 3.8 GPA in my marketing program, sleep becoming a luxury I rarely afforded myself.
After graduation, those years of saving allowed me to put a deposit on a modest one-bedroom apartment in Chicago’s Lake View neighborhood. A 20-minute train ride from my current position as a marketing specialist at Horizon Media, my apartment became my sanctuary. Every throw pillow and coffee mug, a declaration of independence.
Two Paths Diverge
Meanwhile, Megan’s post-high school life took a dramatically different trajectory. Now 24, she had attempted three different college programs: photography at Columbia College Chicago (dropped out after one semester), business at DePaul University (lasted two semesters), and most recently fashion merchandising at a technical institute (withdrawn after missing too many classes). Between these educational attempts, she’d cycled through retail jobs, barista positions, and hostessing at trendy restaurants, never lasting more than a few months at each.
Each time Megan faced a crisis—whether an eviction notice for late rent or a car that needed expensive repairs—our parents swooped in with their checkbooks and sympathetic murmurs about how “the economy is just so hard for young people these days.” The irony that we were navigating the same economy was apparently lost on them.
My most recent memory of this pattern was just two months ago when Megan called our parents crying because her roommate “unfairly” kicked her out after Megan had supposedly borrowed money from her wallet. My mother immediately called me, fishing for an invitation for Megan to stay with me “just until things settle down.” But I had finally worked up the courage to suggest that perhaps Megan could stay with them instead. This small boundary felt like scaling Mount Everest, my heart pounding in my chest as I waited for my mother’s response. To my surprise, after an uncomfortable silence, she agreed. Though not without a pointed comment about how “family should help family.” That victory, small as it was, had bolstered my confidence in setting limits.
My apartment had become more than just a place to live; it was physical proof that I could exist outside the suffocating role of Megan’s keeper. I decorated it with care, investing in a comfortable sectional sofa where I could unwind after work, a small but efficient kitchen where I taught myself to cook real meals instead of surviving on ramen, and a bedroom with the first queen-size bed I’d ever owned. My home office corner in the living room had recently become even more important after my promotion to Senior Marketing Specialist last month—a position that came with more responsibilities and the occasional privilege of working from home. This promotion represented years of hard work and sacrifice, a trajectory I was determined to maintain. The irony wasn’t lost on me that as my career gained momentum, Megan had just lost another job at a boutique clothing store for consistently showing up late.
I loved my sister; that was never in question. When Megan’s genuinely funny personality shone through, or when she showed flashes of creative talent in her photography, I felt the familiar tug of wanting to protect and nurture her. But years of being her designated safety net had created a reservoir of resentment that occasionally threatened to overflow, especially when I witnessed our parents’ continuing pattern of rescuing her from consequences rather than encouraging growth. With each passing year, the contrast between my life of careful planning and responsibility and Megan’s life of impulsive decisions and parental bailouts grew more pronounced, creating an ever-widening gap between us that I wasn’t sure how to bridge.
The Dinner Announcement
Monthly family dinners had been a Wilson tradition since I moved out, my mother insisting we needed to stay connected as a family despite living less than an hour apart. These Sunday gatherings followed a predictable script: my father would grill something regardless of the weather; my mother would prepare too many sides while lamenting how little I ate; Megan would arrive late with a dramatic story about traffic or parking; and I would field questions about my job and dating life while deflecting comments about my “biological clock” with practiced grace.
This particular Sunday seemed no different as I pulled into my parents’ driveway in Oak Park, noting Megan’s absence despite the 5:00 p.m. start time clearly communicated in my mother’s group text. The familiar scent of my mother’s garlic mashed potatoes greeted me as I entered the house, along with her crushing hug and immediate commentary on my appearance. “You look tired, sweetheart. Are they working you too hard at that marketing place?” she asked, holding me at arm’s length for inspection while I mentally counted to 10 before responding with my standard, “I’m fine, Mom. Just busy with the new promotion.”
My father emerged from the kitchen, a red apron declaring “Grillmaster” stretched across his chest, to give me his customary side hug and glass of white wine. “Your sister’s running late,” he announced unnecessarily, as if this weren’t the case every single month. “Something about her car giving her trouble again.” I nodded, unsurprised, and settled into helping my mother finish dinner preparations while making appropriate noises of interest as she updated me on neighborhood gossip.
Megan arrived 20 minutes later in a whirlwind of apologies and complaints about her “totally psycho landlord” who “had the audacity to ask for this month’s rent.” Dinner progressed normally at first, with my father dominating conversation with opinions on the city’s infrastructure projects while my mother periodically reminded everyone to take second helpings.
It was during a brief lull as my father served himself more steak that my mother cleared her throat in that particular way that always preceded an announcement. “So, we wanted to talk to you girls about something,” she began, exchanging a meaningful look with my father. “Megan’s having some issues with her apartment situation.” This wasn’t news. Megan had been complaining about her landlord since she moved in six months ago, though the specific complaints shifted from month to month.
“Yeah, he’s such a jerk,” Megan interjected, pushing her food around her plate. “He’s saying I have to be out by the end of the month because I’m, like, six weeks behind on rent. It’s not my fault the boutique cut my hours.” She conveniently omitted that her hours were cut after repeated tardiness, a detail I’d learned from our cousin who worked at a neighboring store.
“Well,” my mother continued. “Your father and I have been talking, and we think we’ve found the perfect solution.” She smiled brightly, her eyes landing on me with an expression I immediately recognized from childhood: the one that preceded me being volunteered for something I didn’t want to do. “Libby has that nice apartment with the extra closet space in her bedroom, and she’s at work most of the day anyway. It makes perfect sense for Megan to move in with you, just temporarily, until she gets back on her feet.” The word “temporarily” hung in the air like a bad joke between us, echoing previous temporary arrangements that had stretched from weeks into months. I felt as though I’d been dunked in ice water, a cold shock running from my scalp to my toes.
As my parents continued outlining their plan, my father joined in, his tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing a business transaction rather than commandeering my living space. “We figure you girls can share the bedroom. Megan doesn’t need much space for her things, and it would save her from having to pay rent while she’s between jobs.” My pulse quickened as I processed his words, images of my carefully organized apartment flashing before my eyes: my home office where I took client calls, my peaceful bedroom where I recharged after stressful work days, my kitchen where I didn’t have to clean up anyone else’s dishes.
Meanwhile, Megan was already warming to the idea, her eyes lighting up. “That would be so perfect! We could have sister nights like when we were kids. I could even help you redecorate. That couch of yours is kind of boring.”
Under normal circumstances, this would be the moment where I’d smile tightly and concede, where I’d set aside my own needs to keep the peace and fulfill my lifelong role as the responsible daughter, the good sister, the family fixer. But something different happened this time. I said nothing. The silence stretched uncomfortably as my family awaited my usual acquiescence, their expressions shifting from expectation to confusion as seconds ticked by. I felt a strange detachment, as if watching the scene from outside my body, noting with clinical interest the tightening of my father’s jaw and the nervous way my mother’s fingers twisted her napkin.
My sister broke the silence first. “Livy, hello! Earth to Olivia,” she said, waving a hand in front of my face. “This is like really important for me right now.” I took a careful sip of water, feeling the cool liquid contrasting with the heat rising in my chest. When I finally spoke, my voice came out steadier than I expected. “I need to think about this.” Not yes, not no, just a pause button on their runaway train of assumptions.
The reaction was immediate and revealing. My mother’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. My father frowned deeply, and Megan’s expression cycled rapidly from confusion to indignation. “What’s there to think about?” my father asked, his tone carrying that edge that had intimidated me since childhood. “Your sister needs help, and you have the space. Family helps family, Olivia.”
Before they could press further, I glanced at my watch and stood up. “I’m sorry. I just remembered I have an early meeting tomorrow to prepare for. I should get going.” This was a lie, but it rolled off my tongue with surprising ease.
The Decision to Stand My Ground
The drive home passed in a blur of streetlights and radio static. My phone buzzing repeatedly in my purse with texts I couldn’t bear to read. By the time I reached my apartment, the first message from my mother had already arrived: “Dad will help move Megan’s things this weekend. Let us know if Saturday or Sunday works better for you. Love you.” This was followed by one from Megan: “So excited to be roomies again! I’ll bring my Netflix password.” Their assumptions hung heavy in the air of my apartment as I walked through each room, suddenly seeing it through their eyes—not as my hard-earned sanctuary, but as available space for Megan’s latest rescue operation. I collapsed onto my boring couch, my chest tight with anxiety and simmering anger, realizing that my silence had been interpreted exactly as they wanted: as consent.
The days following the family dinner unfolded in a haze of avoided calls and internal conflict. Monday morning found me staring blankly at my computer screen. The marketing campaign I was supposed to be finalizing reduced to meaningless shapes as my mind replayed yesterday’s dinner on loop. My coworker Thomas noticed my distraction during our team meeting, raising an eyebrow when I agreed with two contradictory suggestions within minutes. “Coffee after?” he offered as we filed out of the conference room, his expression concerned. I nodded gratefully, and over the bitter office brew, found myself uncharacteristically confiding in him about my family situation. “They didn’t even ask,” I concluded, stirring my coffee with unnecessary vigor. “They just announced it like it was already decided.” Thomas, whose own family boundaries consisted of a biannual phone call to his parents in Seattle, shook his head in disbelief. “And you’re considering saying yes?” The question hung between us, simple yet profound. Was I considering it? The realization that my default setting was still to accommodate hit me with surprising force.
That evening, I called my closest friend, Jade, who had witnessed the entirety of my family dynamic since we met in college. Unlike Thomas, she understood the gravitational pull of my family’s expectations. “Remember what happened last time Megan stayed with you for just a weekend?” she asked pointedly, referencing the disastrous three weeks when Megan had broken up with her boyfriend and needed a place to “clear her head.” This had translated to Megan monopolizing my living room for tearful phone conversations, borrowing my clothes without asking, and leaving the kitchen in such a state that I’d found cereal bowls growing mold under the couch. “You are miserable, Liv, and you just got that promotion. Don’t you have that big client presentation coming up?” Jade’s reminder of my professional responsibilities added another layer to my concerns. The Senior Marketing Specialist position I’d worked so hard for came with the expectation of increased client interaction and flawless campaign execution. My home office setup was crucial for the work-from-home days that had become essential for my deep focus tasks. The reality of trying to conduct professional video calls with Megan, potentially wandering through frame or playing music in the background, made my stomach clench.
Tuesday brought more texts from my family, each assuming my participation in their plan without directly addressing my non-commitment. My father: “Looking at renting a small U-Haul for Saturday morning. Can be there around 10:00.” My mother: “Does Megan need to bring her own towels or do you have extras?” Megan herself: “Can’t wait to raid your closet, sis. JK. But seriously, can I borrow that black dress for job interviews?” Each message increased the pressure building inside me, a cocktail of resentment and guilt that made it difficult to focus on anything else.
By Wednesday, I’d reached out to Marcus, my friend who worked in real estate, asking if he knew of any affordable studio apartments or rooms for rent that might suit Megan. “Define affordable,” he responded skeptically, well aware of Megan’s employment situation. Nevertheless, he sent over a list of possibilities. None ideal, but all better than my living room. I forwarded these to my parents with a carefully worded message, suggesting Megan might prefer her own space, only to receive my mother’s swift reply: “These are all too expensive for her right now, and she needs family support during this transition. It’s only temporary, sweetheart.” The word “temporary” made me laugh bitterly, remembering all the temporary situations that had defined our family dynamic.
Thursday evening found me in my bi-weekly session with Dr. Chen, the therapist I’d started seeing six months ago, initially for work-related anxiety, but who had quickly identified my family boundaries, or lack thereof, as a core issue. As I recounted the dinner and its aftermath, Dr. Chen’s expression remained neutral, though I detected a slight tightening around her eyes when I described my parents’ assumptions. “What would happen?” she asked carefully, “if you simply said, ‘No.'” The question landed like a stone in still water, rippling outward with implications I’d never fully considered.
“They’d be disappointed,” I began automatically, then stopped, realizing the inadequacy of the word. “They’d be angry. They’d say I’m selfish, that I don’t care about my sister. My mom would probably cry.”
Dr. Chen nodded. “And then what would happen?” This simple follow-up question left me momentarily speechless. What would happen? The world wouldn’t end. My parents wouldn’t disown me, though there would certainly be a period of emotional aftermath to weather. Dr. Chen let the silence stretch comfortably before adding, “Olivia, we’ve talked about how saying no to others sometimes means saying yes to yourself. What would saying yes to yourself look like in this situation?” The question followed me home, echoing in my mind as I entered my apartment and looked around with fresh eyes. Saying yes to myself would mean preserving this space I’d created, maintaining my professional momentum, and perhaps most importantly, disrupting a family pattern that ultimately wasn’t healthy for anyone, including Megan.
That evening, I attempted to call Megan directly, hoping to have an honest conversation about the situation, but the call went straight to voicemail. She texted back an hour later: “Super busy RN. Can we talk moving details tomorrow? Thinking I’ll need your help packing this weekend.” Her assumption that I’d not only agreed to the arrangement but would actively help facilitate it redoubled my resolve.
A Radical Idea and the Morning of Confrontation
As Friday arrived with still no direct confrontation, I found myself sharing my dilemma with my neighbor Elena during an unexpected encounter in the building’s laundry room. Elena, a straightforward woman in her mid-30s who worked as a nurse, listened to my abbreviated version of events with increasing disbelief. “So, they’re just showing up tomorrow with all her stuff without you actually agreeing?” she clarified, folding her scrubs with precise movements. When I nodded miserably, she shook her head. “That’s some next-level boundary crossing.” Something about hearing my situation described so plainly by someone outside my life gave me a clarity I’d been lacking all week.
As we gathered our respective laundry baskets, Elena casually offered, “You know, I’m off tomorrow if you need backup. I’ve gotten pretty good at dealing with difficult situations in the ER.” Her offer sparked an idea so simple yet so radical that it momentarily took my breath away. What if I simply wasn’t there when they arrived? What if someone else, someone who hadn’t been conditioned to cave to their expectations, opened the door instead? “Actually,” I said slowly, “there might be a way you could help, if you’re willing.”
As Elena and I worked out the details of our plan over impromptu coffee in her apartment, I felt a curious mixture of anxiety and exhilaration. For perhaps the first time, I wasn’t going to directly confront my family, nor was I going to acquiesce. Instead, I was choosing a third option: absence. By removing myself physically from the situation, I would be communicating my boundary more clearly than any words I could have chosen—words that would have inevitably been twisted or ignored. As I returned to my apartment that night, my phone vibrated with a final text from my mother: “Dad rented the truck for 9:00 a.m. We should be at your place by 11:00. Megan’s so excited about this fresh start with you.” I didn’t reply, but set my alarm for 7:00 a.m., determined to be long gone before they arrived, leaving Elena as my proxy, my boundary keeper, my stranger at the door.
Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, sunlight streaming through my bedroom blinds as my alarm chirped at 7:00 a.m. sharp. I’d slept fitfully, anxiety-induced dreams about being trapped in shrinking rooms jolting me awake throughout the night. Standing in my kitchen, coffee in hand, I surveyed my apartment with a strange sense of finality, as if saying goodbye to it in its current state. The irony wasn’t lost on me that I was the one preparing to leave while my family prepared to move Megan in. Rather than clearing space in my closet or setting up the air mattress they undoubtedly expected, I methodically gathered my laptop, a change of clothes, and the work materials I would need for the day.
My phone pinged with a text from Elena confirming our plan. “I’ll be ready when they arrive. You doing okay?” I appreciated her check-in, responding with more confidence than I felt. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Thank you again for doing this.” Elena’s reply was immediate and bolstering: “Standing up for yourself isn’t something you should thank others for helping with, but you’re welcome anyway.” The support of someone who understood boundaries helped steady my resolve as I continued my morning preparations.
At 8:30 a.m., my phone rang, my mother’s name illuminating the screen. I answered after two rings, working to keep my voice casual. “Morning, Mom.” Her voice came through bright with anticipation. “Good morning, sweetheart. We’re just loading the last of Megan’s things. Your father thinks we might be a little early, maybe around 10:30. Do you need us to pick up anything on the way? Coffee? Bagels?” The normality of her tone—the complete absence of any acknowledgment that I hadn’t actually agreed to this arrangement—strengthened my determination.
“Actually, Mom, I won’t be there when you arrive.” A beat of silence followed before her confused response. “What do you mean? Where will you be?” I kept my explanation simple. “I have to go into the office for a few hours to finish up a project.” This wasn’t entirely untrue; I did have work I could do, though it wasn’t urgent enough to require a Saturday office visit.
“Well, when will you be back? Your father can only keep the truck until 3:00 p.m.” The implicit expectation in her question that I would return in time to help with Megan’s move-in made my chest tighten.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be, but someone will let you in.” I deliberately kept this vague, not mentioning Elena by name. My mother’s voice took on that concerned edge I knew so well. “Olivia, this isn’t like you. Your sister is very excited about your new arrangement. We all agreed this was the best solution for now.”
The words, “We all agreed,” sent a flash of anger through me so intense I had to take a breath before responding. “I never agreed to anything, Mom. I said I needed to think about it.” Her dismissive laugh made my grip tighten on the phone. “Oh, sweetheart, you’ve always been such an overthinker. It’s just temporary, and family helps family.” Before I could formulate a response that wouldn’t devolve into an argument, I heard my father’s voice in the background asking if I had enough closet space cleared out. My mother relayed the question without waiting for my answer to her previous statement. The familiar feeling of being steamrolled swept over me, but this time instead of giving in, I held firm. “I need to go now. Like I said, someone will be there to let you in. We can talk later.” I ended the call before she could protest further, my hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline of this small act of resistance.
The next hour passed in a blur of preparation. I texted Elena that my parents might arrive earlier than expected and received her reassuring confirmation that she was ready whenever they showed up. At 9:45 a.m., I grabbed my bag and took one last look around my apartment. A space that represented so much more than just square footage and furniture. It was the physical manifestation of my independence, of years of hard work and careful saving, of a life built on my own terms. The thought of that being disrupted without my consent fueled my footsteps as I locked the door behind me, purposely avoiding the elevator in case my family arrived early.
The Stranger at the Door
The coffee shop I’d chosen as my hideout was a small, independent place 10 blocks from my apartment. Far enough that I wouldn’t accidentally encounter my family, but close enough that I could return quickly if necessary. As I settled into a corner table with my laptop and an oat milk latte, I tried to focus on the marketing presentation I’d brought to work on, but found my attention continually drifting to my phone, anticipating the inevitable barrage of messages once my family arrived to find Elena instead of me.
At 10:40 a.m., my phone began to vibrate with incoming calls from both my parents, which I let go to voicemail. Instead of listening to them immediately, I checked the text from Elena: “They’re here. Your sister has a lot of stuff. Proceeding as planned.” I sent back a quick “thank you” and turned my attention back to the steady stream of notifications now lighting up my phone.
After declining another call from my father, I texted my parents: “I’m not home, but my neighbor Elena will let you in. I’m sorry for any confusion, but I never agreed to Megan moving in. We can discuss alternatives when I return.” The immediate response from my mother made my stomach clench. “What are you talking about? We discussed this at dinner. Your sister needs you right now.” My father’s message followed seconds later, his digital tone somehow conveying his anger, even through text. “This is extremely disappointing behavior, Olivia. We’re standing in your hallway with all of Megan’s things and nowhere to go.”
The guilt these messages triggered was powerful and familiar, nearly overwhelming my resolve. As I sat there, caught between decades of conditioning to acquiesce and my newfound determination to stand my ground, I found myself transported back to the first time I’d tried to set a boundary with my family. I was 16 and after months of saving from my part-time job, had purchased concert tickets to see my favorite band with friends. The day before the concert, my parents informed me I would need to babysit Megan while they attended a last-minute dinner party. When I protested, showing them the tickets I bought with my own money, my father’s disappointment and my mother’s tearful accusations of selfishness had crushed my resistance. I’d given away my ticket and stayed home. That small rebellion effectively squashed.
The memory strengthened rather than weakened my current resolve. I was no longer that 16-year-old girl, financially and emotionally dependent on my parents’ approval; this apartment, this life I’d built was mine to protect. My phone continued to buzz with messages and calls, but I resisted the urge to check them, knowing that each communication would be designed, consciously or unconsciously, to pull me back into familiar patterns. Instead, I texted Elena for an update, receiving her reply moments later. “They’re still here. Your sister is crying in the hallway. Your mom tried to convince me to let them at least store the boxes. I said no. Building manager just showed up because of the noise.” Reading this update, I felt my hands begin to shake slightly, my body physically reacting to the conflict happening in my absence. Part of me wanted to rush home and smooth things over, to be the Olivia they expected me to be. I nearly gathered my things to do just that when another text from Jade arrived, apparently having been briefed on the situation: “Stay strong, Liv. This is important.” Those simple words of support helped anchor me as I continued my self-imposed exile, waiting for the storm to pass.
Elena later told me that when my family arrived, their initial confusion quickly gave way to impatience. She had positioned herself casually by my apartment door when she heard the elevator open and the unmistakable sounds of multiple people struggling with heavy items. “Can I help you?” she’d asked, though she knew exactly who they were from my descriptions. My father, a box balanced precariously in his arms, frowned at her presence. “We’re looking for Olivia Wilson’s apartment,” he stated, glancing at the apartment number to confirm he was in the right place.
Elena, maintaining the professional calm she’d developed through years of emergency room work, replied, “This is Olivia’s apartment, but she’s not home right now. I’m Elena, her neighbor from 4B.”
My mother, who had been directing Megan on where to set down a collection of plants, turned to Elena with surprised confusion. “Not home? But she knew we were coming. We’re moving her sister in today.”
Elena told me she hesitated here, carefully choosing her words. “Olivia mentioned you might be stopping by, but she didn’t say anything about a move-in. She asked me to let you know she’s at work and won’t be back for several hours.” The silence that followed was apparently thick with tension.
My sister broke it first, dropping a duffel bag dramatically to the floor. “What do you mean she’s not here? All my stuff is packed. We rented a truck!”
Elena maintained her calm demeanor, though she admitted to me later that she’d found Megan’s entitled attitude immediately grating. “I understand this is frustrating, but from what Olivia told me, she never actually agreed to this arrangement.”
My father’s face had reportedly colored at this, his voice rising. “This is a family matter! Olivia said someone would let us in. We assumed that meant we could at least start moving things in.”
Elena stood her ground, physically positioning herself more directly in front of my door. “I’m sorry, but Olivia specifically asked me not to let anyone into her apartment in her absence. She mentioned she hadn’t agreed to her sister moving in and needed time to think about it.”
My mother, always the emotional mediator, apparently tried a different approach. “You seem like a nice young woman, Elena. I’m sure you can understand our situation. Megan has nowhere to go right now, and Olivia has plenty of space in her apartment. It would just be temporary until Megan gets back on her feet.”
Elena told me she found my mother’s manipulative tactics particularly transparent, perhaps because she hadn’t been conditioned by decades of exposure to respond to them. “Mrs. Wilson, I understand you’re in a difficult position, but I can’t let you into someone else’s home without their explicit permission, especially when they’ve specifically asked me not to. I’m sorry, but you’ll need to speak directly with Olivia about this.”
Megan, according to Elena’s account, had by this point progressed from indignation to tears, sitting dramatically atop one of her suitcases in the hallway. “This is just like Olivia,” she reportedly sobbed loud enough for other apartment doors to crack open curiously. “She’s always been so selfish! She knows I don’t have anywhere else to go!” My father attempted calling me again, holding the phone out so Elena could…
What a dramatic turn of events! It sounds like you’re finally taking control of your life and setting crucial boundaries. What happened next with your father trying to get Elena to listen to his call? Did your family eventually leave?