Part 1
It was 10:15 p.m. when I unlocked the door to our apartment in South Chicago.
My back felt like it had been run over by a truck.
My eyes burned from exhaustion.
My hands still carried the deep red marks left by twelve hours of hauling inventory, checking shipments, and loading pallets at a distribution warehouse outside the city.
I had spent the last two hours fighting traffic and crowded trains just to get home.
All I wanted was a hot shower, a decent meal, and a few quiet minutes beside my wife.
Emily was eight months pregnant.
Every night, when I got home, I’d rest my hand on her stomach and wait for our son to kick. Those tiny movements were enough to remind me why I worked so hard.
Why every sacrifice mattered.
The moment I stepped inside, something felt wrong.
The smell hit me first.
Cold pizza.
Spilled soda.
Grease.
Old food.
The living room looked like the aftermath of a college party.
Open pizza boxes covered the coffee table.
Paper plates sat on the couch.
Crushed napkins littered the floor.
Half-empty soda cups balanced on every available surface.
The television blasted some reality show at full volume.
My mother, Teresa, was stretched across the largest couch like she owned the place, wrapped in a blanket and eating potato chips.
My three sisters occupied the rest of the room.
Brittany sat taking selfies with a brand-new phone I was still making monthly payments on.
Kayla scrolled through TikTok videos, laughing loudly.
Lily complained that the pizza hadn’t come with extra cheese.
Not one of them was cleaning.
