Chapter 5
I waited until Martha had gone downstairs before I brought the schedule to the dining table.
It was printed on one sheet of paper, folded once down the middle. My name appeared in nearly every square from Monday through Friday, with Saturday morning added in handwriting. The hours had been copied from the notes I kept beside my school calendar, but they weren't my hours. They were the spaces between them.
Dad sat at the head of the table with his glasses low on his nose. Mom was sorting coupons near the window. A pale strip of evening light lay across the tablecloth, touching the edge of the paper.
“I need to be clear,” I said.
Dad looked up. “About what?”
I unfolded the schedule and set it in front of him. “I won't provide routine unpaid childcare. I can help occasionally if I agree beforehand, but I won't be responsible for Martha's regular hours. I also need the rent terms in writing. The amount, what's included, and when it's due.”
Mom stopped sorting.
Dad's expression didn't change right away. He lifted the paper, scanned it, and placed it down again as carefully as if it might tear.
“You're making this more complicated than it is.”
“No. I'm putting the arrangement into words.”
“The arrangement is that everyone contributes.”
“I already contribute. I teach all day, pay for my share of groceries, and pay rent. Childcare is separate.”
Mom's mouth tightened. “Martha is pregnant, Abby.”
“I know.”
“She needs support.”
“I know that too.”
The words came out level, but my hands had begun to sweat. I pressed them flat against my thighs beneath the table. I didn't want them to see how much effort it took to keep my voice from shaking.
Dad leaned back in his chair. “Then you'll understand why the rent has to reflect your decision.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the number we discussed is no longer current.”
He reached beside him and pulled a second sheet from a folder. This one wasn't the household spreadsheet. It had a typed heading, my name, and a number in bold near the center.
$950 MONTHLY RENT.
I stared at it.
The figure was three hundred dollars higher than the amount Dad had mentioned before. Beneath it, a line read: Effective immediately. Payment due by the first of the month.
“Effective immediately?” I asked.
“You've had notice that the household situation is changing.”
“You said the rent would go up if I didn't help with the baby. You didn't give me this amount.”
“I gave you the principle.”
“That isn't a rent term.”
Dad tapped the paper with one finger. “This is the rent term.”
Mom folded a coupon in half, then in half again. “You could avoid all of this by helping your sister.”
“That would make the rent lower because I was providing childcare.”
“Because you live here and benefit from the household.”
“I would still be working full-time.”
Mom's eyes flashed. “Nobody is asking you to quit your job.”
“The schedule has me leaving school early three days a week.”
“That can be adjusted.”
“By whom?”
Nobody answered.
From the hallway came the soft scrape of a step. Martha appeared near the doorway, one hand resting beneath the curve of her stomach and the other holding her coffee mug. Her dark hair was pulled over one shoulder. She looked at the new paper, then at Dad.
“What changed?” she asked.
Dad turned slightly in his chair. “We're discussing Abby's rent.”
Martha's gaze returned to me. “Because of the schedule?”
I didn't answer for a moment. I had spent days trying not to make her the center of the conflict, even when the schedule had been built around her needs. She looked tired, but not surprised.
“I said I wouldn't agree to regular childcare without written terms,” I said.
Dad's jaw shifted. “Nobody forced you to do anything.”
Martha lowered the mug. “The schedule says she picks up the baby after school.”
“It was a draft.”
“It has her name on every weekday.”
Mom stood suddenly, gathering the coupons into a loose stack. “This family is trying to prepare for a baby, and all anyone can talk about is money.”
“Dad changed the rent,” I said.
“Because you're treating your sister like an inconvenience.”
“I haven't said that.”
“You don't have to. You're acting like it.”
The accusation landed harder than Dad's number. I looked at Mom, at the familiar lines around her mouth, and realized she had already decided what my refusal meant. It wasn't a boundary to her. It was evidence that I had become selfish.
I picked up the notice.
“Please send this to me by email,” I said. “And include a complete breakdown of what the rent covers.”
Dad gave a short, humorless laugh. “You need an official letter now?”
“Yes.”
His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “You think paperwork will change the fact that you live under this roof?”
“No. It will show me what I'm agreeing to.”
For several seconds, the only sound was the refrigerator cycling on in the kitchen.
Then Dad said, “You have until the fifteenth to decide whether you can meet the new amount.”
“The fifteenth is less than two weeks away.”
“That's the deadline.”
Mom turned toward me. “You'd really leave while Martha is carrying your niece?”
I folded the notice along its original crease. “I haven't said I'm leaving.”
“You're asking for rent in writing.”
“I should have done that before.”
Martha looked down at her mug. Her thumb moved once along the handle. “Dad, I didn't ask for her to be scheduled every day.”
He didn't look at her. “This is not your conversation.”
That silence told me more than the spreadsheet had.
I carried the notice upstairs and photographed both sides under the desk lamp. I saved the images in a folder labeled School Records, then sent them to a private email account I rarely used. The subject line was simple: Rent Notice.
Afterward, I opened my laptop and searched apartment listings in earnest. I wrote down deposits, utility estimates, commute times, and landlords who listed phone numbers instead of contact forms. One small apartment was close enough to school that I could walk if my car needed repairs. The rent was higher than I wanted, but it was a fixed number. No one could add three hundred dollars because I declined to raise a child that wasn't mine.
At 10:47, Dad's email arrived.
Attached was the same notice, followed by one sentence: Please confirm your decision by the fifteenth.
I downloaded it, backed it up, and entered the deadline in my calendar.
May you like
Then I opened the apartment listing again.
For the first time, moving out stopped feeling like a threat I was making to my family. It became a task with a date attached.
