I Sacrificed 25 Years for My Family and All I Got Was a Spatula

Eight million dollars in demolition compensation, divided by contribution to the family.

So my brother, who once bought the family an air conditioner, walked away with four million.

My younger sister, who'd bought a washing machine, got one million.

Even my baby brother scored three million for buying a hair dryer.

And me—the one who'd held this family together for twenty-five years—I got a spatula.

Mom leaned back in her wheelchair and said, "If there are no objections, go ahead and sign."

When I didn't move, the ones who'd gotten their share all turned to look at me.

I looked at my mother. My voice came out quiet.

"Mom, why?"

"Why what?"

"Why is there nothing for me?"

She frowned, but her tone was matter-of-fact. "Because you haven't contributed to this family."

My chest seized. I stood there for a long time, unable to speak.

Finally, I set down the spatula, untied my apron, and said, "Okay."

——

Mom was half-paralyzed, propped up in her wheelchair. Beneath her sat the mugwort and dried-orange-peel lumbar cushion I'd sewn for her by hand.

My brother Sylvester Perez sat to her left, head down, scrolling through his phone. My sister Pat Perez sat to her right, kneading Mom's feet and massaging her legs, glancing up at me every now and then.

My youngest brother, Val Perez, was the most impatient of all, fingers flying across his phone screen. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching the three of them, a weight like a stone pressing down on my chest.

The old house had finally been demolished.

But I never imagined it would end like this.

Mom glanced at me. Not a trace of guilt on her face.

"You're the eldest. Taking care of the family, looking after your brothers and sister—that was always your responsibility."

"You're single now anyway. No reason to fight them over this."

"Go make dinner. Everyone's hungry."

The three of them went on with what they were doing. None of them said a word.

I looked down at the spatula I'd used for twenty-five years. The wooden handle had been worn to a shine, its edges warped and misshapen.

Something in my chest froze solid.

I draped the apron over the back of a chair, poured myself a glass of water, drank it, set it down, and walked toward the front door.

Mom's voice sharpened with urgency. "If you're not making dinner, where do you think you're going?"

My throat was still tight. "Out. I need some air."

I'd barely reached the doorway when Val called after me.

I stopped. Turned around.

His eyes were bright, brimming with excitement.

"Priscilla Perez, you haven't signed yet. Sign first before you go."

I was fifteen years older than Val. I'd raised him with my own two hands. Those years had been brutal. But whenever I saw that bright, innocent smile of his, all the bitterness and exhaustion faded away.

Not anymore. His smile couldn't thaw the cold that had settled in my chest.

"I'm not getting any money," I said. "I don't need to sign. You three signing is enough."

Val blinked those wide, guileless eyes. "That won't work. You still need to write a statement waiving your claim to the demolition money."

He was the most educated one in our family, after all. Always a step ahead of the others.

I didn't move. "Does it matter whether I write it or not?"

Sylvester stood up. "Priscilla, this is all Mom's arrangement. You're not mad at Mom, are you?"

Was I mad? I wasn't sure "mad" was the right word. There was just this unbearable tightness in my chest, and my head felt like it was filled with fog.

I hesitated for a moment before answering. "No."

Pat turned to Mom. "Mom, maybe we should give Priscilla some of the money."

Sylvester shot her a glare. "You want to share, share from yours. I finally have enough to stop renting. I'm counting on this money to buy a house and pay for my son's school."

Val raised his hand. "I'm not taking the civil service exam anymore. I'm going to use this money to start a business."