“I paid for this place,” I said.

“Ten years of overtime. Ten years of working double shifts.”

I looked up at the water stain in the corner of the ceiling.

I had spent my weekends patching the plumbing in this building myself just to keep the association fees down.

My lower back still ached from crawling under the floorboards on Tuesday.

“You did what any good sister would do,” my mother said.

Her voice had gone flat and cold, like the grey sleet hitting the glass behind her.

“But now Megan needs security,” she continued.

“She can’t work. You can always get another union job and find another place.”

“She *can* work,” I said.

“She’s been working. Lauren sent me her payroll schedule at the art gallery.”

“I don’t care about some fake schedule!” my mother screamed.

She stood up, her metal chair scraping loudly against the linoleum.

The sound was sharp, like metal on metal.

My father winced and covered his ears with his rough hands.

“You are a selfish, bitter girl,” my mother said, pointing a trembling finger at my face.