The aluminum crutches leaned against the refrigerator like silent sentinels, silver and cold under the harsh recessed lighting of my parents’ suburban kitchen.

The next morning, the house was unnaturally quiet.

I woke up around 8:00 AM to the smell of burnt toast wafting down the hallway. When I hobbled into the kitchen on my crutches, I found my mother standing by the toaster looking profoundly depressed, while my father sat at the island staring into a mug of black coffee like it held the secrets to the universe.

There was no sign of Ryan.

“Morning,” I said, navigating toward the refrigerator to grab a carton of orange juice.

Neither of them answered immediately. Helen just pulled the burnt toast out of the machine with a heavy sigh, tossing it directly into the trash bin.

“Your brother left for his downtown office early,” Dad finally spoke up, his voice uncharacteristically gravelly. He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes fixed on the coffee mug. “He said he had to catch up on some accounts.”

“Translation: he’s trying to figure out how to balance his budget after Lisa’s company wiped out his discretionary fund,” I remarked, pouring my juice into a glass.

Helen slammed the toaster lever down with unnecessary force. “You went too far, Catherine. There was no reason to bring in commercial caterers. You could have just asked us for help with the prep.”

I stopped, my glass halfway to my mouth, and stared at my mother.

“Mom, do you actually hear yourself?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. “Three days ago, I walked into this house on crutches with a broken bone. Within ten minutes, you handed me a grocery list for ten people and told me to get to work. When I told you I couldn't stand, you told me to hop.”

Helen opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out.

“And you, Dad,” I continued, turning my gaze to my father. “You watched me struggle, you heard Ryan dismiss my injury, and your only contribution was to tell me to stop complaining and help my brother. You didn't offer to help. You didn't tell Ryan to hire someone. You just expected me to sacrifice my physical recovery to feed his ego because that’s what I’ve always done.”

Dad winced, finally looking up. The exhaustion in his eyes was palpable, but beneath it, there was a flicker of something new—shame.

“We... we didn’t mean to minimize your injury, Cath,” Dad muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just... Ryan’s life has been so high-pressure lately with the promotion, and we were worried—"

“You were worried about him,” I interrupted. “You’ve always worried about him. Ryan is thirty-three years old. He makes six figures, he drives a BMW, and he throws dinner parties he can’t afford. He is not a victim. He’s just spoiled.”

I set my glass down on the counter with a sharp clack.

“I’m packing my bags today,” I announced.

Helen spun around from the toaster. “Packing your bags?! Where are you going? Your apartment is a third-floor walk-up with no elevator! How are you supposed to get up the stairs with that leg?!”

“I’m moving into Lisa’s guest house,” I replied smoothly. “She has a ground-floor suite, she actually knows how to treat a guest, and unlike my own family, she respects my physical boundaries.”

Dad stood up from his stool, taking a half-step forward. “Cath, wait. Don't be hasty. You don't need to leave. We can... we can talk about this. We can order takeout tonight, just the three of us.”