For as long as I can remember, I was the family fixer. Not the adorable big-sister-who-braids-your-hair type—no, I was the one who paid bills at sixteen,
made grocery lists by fourteen, and somehow became the third parent before I hit high school. While my classmates were learning algebra, I was figuring out how to keep the lights on when my parents took off on a whim.
They were adventurers, they said. Free spirits. Translation? Irresponsible. They drove to music festivals and spontaneous getaways while I rationed lunch meat and clipped coupons to feed myself.
Still, I didn’t complain. I thought I was helping. That someone had to be the adult, and since I had the bandwidth, it might as well be me
