Six months later, the bakery was drowning in debt, the second location never opened, vendors were threatening legal action, and the money from the house was gone.
That was when her parents turned to Nora.
“We’ll stay at your place for a bit,” her father had said, flicking his hand as if details were unimportant. “Just until we get settled.”
Her mother added, “You’ve always been the practical one. We knew we could count on you.”
Nora had looked at them across the table, feeling something cold and familiar settle in her chest. That phrase—the practical one—had followed her all her life. It meant the child who received less because she asked for less. The daughter expected to solve problems she never created. The one who paid her own tuition, bought her own first car, and never asked for attention because there was always another crisis involving Lily.
She glanced around the kitchen she had helped repaint. The dining set she had partly paid for when her father’s hours were cut years ago. The roof repairs she had quietly covered in her late twenties. And now, after all that, they expected to move into her three-bedroom rental and make her their retirement plan.
“How long is ‘a bit’?” Nora asked.
Her father avoided her gaze. “No need to make this difficult.”
That was all the answer she needed.
So the next morning, before another emotional speech could trap her, Nora toured a furnished studio downtown. It was small—barely enough room for a bed, a narrow table, and a single sunny window overlooking an alley—but it was clean, affordable, and hers. She signed immediately.
