My Mother’s “Fairness” Ruined My Life

I rolled my eyes. My life was already this much of a disaster.

If I didn't raise hell now, what was I supposed to do? Graduate and drown in student loans?

No money meant no education. Simple as that.

I'd been researching how to take legal action against my father.

After digging into it, I figured out the path of least resistance: call the cops.

When the officers showed up at the house, I threw myself at their legs and sobbed.

"I can't survive anymore! My mom can't afford to raise me, and my dad refuses to! I'll kill myself right in front of them if I have to!"

The neighbors came flooding out to watch the spectacle. I'd turned the house into a full-blown circus.

The infuriating part? I was already eighteen. The officers told us to work it out among ourselves.

If we could've worked it out among ourselves, why would I have called the police in the first place?

All they ever did was smooth things over and send everyone home.

I'd always assumed the worst about people. They never disappointed me.

This time, though, the situation had truly exploded.

Both sets of grandparents descended on our house, along with every aunt, uncle, and distant relative who could find an excuse to show up.

My mother sat there covering her face, crying about how I was out of control, how I had no sense. Grandma Abbott hovered beside her, patting her shoulder.

Then Grandma turned and fixed me with a disapproving glare.

"This is the woman who gave birth to you. Who raised you. What kind of person turns around and spits on their own mother?"

She was pinning the label on me. Ungrateful. The girl who bit the hand that fed her.

Funny thing was, being ungrateful felt a hell of a lot better than being obedient.

I hadn't done a single chore in days. I'd been sleeping until ten every morning. You have no idea how refreshing that was.

I didn't just resent my mother. I resented my grandparents too.

"Let's talk about you two for a second," I said, turning to face them. "You're this old, and you're still going on about carrying on the Sawyer name. 'Let her take our surname, we'll raise her.' Really? Grandpa Abbott gets five hundred dollars a month from his pension. What exactly were you going to raise me with? Big talk?"

Because in all these years, I hadn't seen a single cent from either of them.

I let out a cold laugh. Grandma clutched at her chest, her face turning scarlet.

"Enough!" Zachery suddenly erupted. "You think you're the only one who's been wronged? All these years, Grandpa and Grandma called to check on you every holiday. Mom always cared more about you. They're my family too, you know!"

My mother looked at him with warm, grateful eyes.

"See, Zachery always—"

My eyes lit up. I cut her off before she could finish.

"So you want these relatives, Zachery? Great. Perfect. Starting today, you take the Sawyer name, and I'll take Gilbert. We'll both have bright futures!"

"I'll be living the good life, and you can stay home doing chores with Mom and work part-time jobs through college to support the family!"

I delivered this speech with the fervor of a campaign promise. Zachery's expression, meanwhile, crumbled inch by inch into mortified silence.

He couldn't meet our mother's eyes.

See? Nobody wanted the hard life.

When Zachery said nothing, I turned to my father.

He stiffened the moment he felt my gaze land on him.

"Dad. You and Mom have spent all these years keeping score down to the last penny. She's not really a wife to you. You're not really a husband to her. So why keep dragging this out? Just get a divorce."

He stared at me for a long, heavy moment.

"Your mother is the one who insisted on changing your surname."

He refused to bring up the original agreement. I didn't bring it up either. There was no point.

I nodded.

"Mom made a stupid decision. Fine. But even if I don't carry the Gilbert name, I'm still your daughter. She's still your wife."

"Instead, for all these years, she's been doing your housework for free, and you still won't help raise your own kid."

My mother, that hopeless pushover. Dad never gave her a dime, and she still cleaned his house. Still cooked his meals. Still dragged me along to help.

Every word I spoke dripped with resentment.

Even Zachery was squirming in his seat.

My father slammed his palm on the table.

"You took your mother's name. That means you're not my child. Your mother can't afford to raise you? That's her problem for being useless. What's it got to do with me?"

"I offered to raise you as long as you switched your name back. Your mother refused! And the housework? That's her job. I don't even charge her rent."