My father told me that Leo was little and could sleep anywhere, so I was pressured into putting my son in bed with me so a stranger could have his room. The table went quiet when I tried to object because my family only tolerated my boundaries when they were disguised as jokes.
The third incident was the one that should have taught me a permanent lesson about the lack of respect my family had for my privacy. Tiffany decided to host Thanksgiving at my apartment because it was more central than her house in South Carolina, and she announced it rather than asking.
“Caleb’s place is easy for everyone to get to,” she wrote in the chat, ignoring my protest that the space was far too small for twenty people. My mother told me to let my sister have this win, while my father reminded me that they had helped me get the apartment in the first place.
My mother even said that the apartment was practically family property anyway, which was a phrase that sat inside me like swallowed metal for a long time. I started looking at my own furniture and my son’s drawings on the fridge and wondering if anything actually belonged to me.