A Parasite's Public Reckoning

Just as I walked out of the wedding planner's office, cancellation contract signed, a message from Graham buzzed on my phone. His tone was as entitled as ever, as if the previous night had never happened.

"Morgan's party ends at 8:30. Go pick her up early."

This was his first contact since the fight. In the past, I would have clung to this as a peace offering, rushing to the party venue without complaint to pick up his troublesome sister, Morgan Walsh.

But now, I just stared at the text, a bitter smile twisting my lips. I started the car and drove straight back to the apartment to pack.

That evening, when I returned to the apartment, the first thing I saw was an open suitcase tossed haphazardly by the door. Morgan was glaring into the open refrigerator as if it had personally offended her. Seeing me, she rolled her eyes.

"Alyssa, where have you been? Do you know how long I waited outside? I had to take a cab back myself. If anything had happened to me, Graham would never forgive you. I'm hungry. I want a lobster roll. Order it for me now!" she shrieked.

I looked at her calmly, my gaze dropping to the designer shoes she was wearing—a graduation gift from me, worth over a thousand dollars. Her entire outfit was a collection of brands I had paid for, an ensemble more expensive than anything in my own closet.

I had always treated her like my own sister, funding her tuition, living expenses, and even her spring break trips, but in return, I'd never received an ounce of genuine respect.

When I was spending money on her, she’d lay on the charm, but the moment I displeased her in the slightest, the venom would come out.

And for some godforsaken reason, in my desperate effort to please Graham, I had endured it all for ten years.

Under Morgan's arrogant stare, I took out my phone and sent a message to Graham. As I typed, I said to her, "I just told your brother you're out of cash for food. You can wait and see what he says. He's at an academic conference out of town, so it might take a while. Or, you could use your own money."

She stared at me, dumbfounded. "What are you talking about? Are you crazy?"

I ignored her and walked straight into the master bedroom, locking the door behind me.

...

The next morning, I was woken by noise from the living room. Morgan had left the kitchen and living room in a state of utter chaos, with takeout containers strewn across every surface. The showerhead in the bathroom was leaking, leaving the expensive tiled floor a slick, hazardous puddle.

She showed no remorse when she saw me. In fact, she deliberately flicked a dollop of hair removal foam onto the floor, her eyes daring me to react.

"What are you looking at? Aren't you going to clean this up? I'm going to be late. Remember to call me a car."

I stared at her, saying nothing, making no move for the mop like I would have in the past. Instead, I calmly returned to the bedroom and zipped up my suitcase.

It was almost funny. This wasn't even my apartment. What was I panicking about?

I emerged, dragging two large suitcases.

"Where are you going?" Morgan's voice was sharp, a hint of alarm finally creeping in. She blocked my path.

I shouldered past her. "Business trip," I said casually. "Two weeks. Just dropping my things at the office."

She pursed her lips, crossing her arms with a smug look. "That's more like it. Go make some money. Some people are future academic stars, off to international conferences, while others are just corporate drones, slaving away."

"You know what that is? Fate. Anyway, I'm going to a new club with my friends this afternoon. Transfer me some money, or I'll tell Graham you're mistreating me!"

She was bluffing, utterly convinced of her power over me.

The irony was staggering. I had propped up this entire family for a decade, and now that I was cutting the cord, they acted like I was the one at fault.

A laugh escaped me, sharp and sudden. I pointed at her, my eyes raking over her from head to toe. "Morgan, I paid for your mother's five-star nursing home. I covered your brother's expenses for ten years at Harvard. I funded your spring break trip to Cancún."

"The three of you have been living off me. The very jacket you're wearing, the new iPhone in your hand—all bought with my card. The next time you open your mouth, maybe think about how you're going to maintain this 'socialite' facade when the money's gone."

The color drained from Morgan's face. Her mouth worked, but no words came out. She could only watch as I tossed the apartment keys onto the console table and walked out without a backward glance.

...

After I settled into my new place, a notification popped up on my phone: a payment reminder from Carol Walsh's luxury nursing home.

The email noted that the payment was due in five days and to ensure sufficient funds were in my guarantor account.

When Graham and I first got together, my heart had ached for him, a brilliant PhD student burdened with an expensive nursing home for his mother and a sister still in college. As a professional with an established career, I had voluntarily taken on the financial load.

I thought my devotion would be met with his. Unfortunately, I had hitched my wagon to a black hole of entitlement.

With that thought, any remaining hesitation evaporated. I immediately replied to the email, revoking my financial guarantee and instructing them to contact Carol Walsh's next of kin, Graham Walsh, for all future payments.

If someone else wanted to be the sucker, they were welcome to it. I was done.