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Let me tell you about my sister's latest scheme. She showed up at my doorstep last week, crying about needing money for her "business venture." After everything that happened with the beach house, she still thinks she's entitled to my savings. Simon just stood there, shaking his head.

When I was 12, I fell off my bike and broke my arm in three places. My dad was supposed to pick me up from the ER, but he was at a golf tournament. The nurse kept saying he'd come soon, but I ended up taking a cab home.

The city lights sparkled through the rain-streaked windows of Sarah Mitchell's corner office on Madison Avenue. At forty-two, she'd mastered the art of corporate warfare, though each victory seemed to chisel away another piece of her private life.

Mother's birthday celebration felt like another opportunity for comparison. While Jessica showcased her promotion at the law firm, I sat quietly, watching Father beam with pride. The crystal glasses clinked, each sound emphasizing my perceived failures.

When I was 14, my appendix burst during a school field trip. The teachers called my mom's cell five times, but she was getting her nails done. By the time I got to the hospital, the infection had spread. Her response? "These things happen."

When I was 14, I broke my arm at gymnastics practice. My mom was at a wine tasting downtown and wouldn't answer her phone. The coach drove me to the ER himself. Three hours later, she finally showed up, martini glass still in hand.

Yesterday, my brother called asking for help with his rent again. I'm only 27, but sometimes I feel like I'm everyone's safety net. Opening my budget spreadsheet, I wondered when this became my normal. Being the responsible one is exhausting.

Everyone thinks I’m losing it because I drink raw vinegar three times a day. My skin needs that glow if I want to stand a chance against those younger girls. It burns, but the thought of him finally seeing me as a beauty makes every single drop worth it.