I’m currently sitting on the tile floor of my mom’s bathroom because if I have to look at one more jar of sourdough starter I am going to throw it out the goddamn window. My sister, the "digital creator," just hit 100k followers on her baking blog. Great. Fantastic. Meanwhile, I’m three years deep into a professional culinary degree, my hands are covered in literal second-degree burns, and I spend ten hours a day mastering the art of a perfect *consommé* just for my mom to tell me it tastes "a bit thin" compared to Sarah’s latest TikTok brownies. Brownies. FROM A BOX MIX SHE DOCTOR-ED WITH SEA SALT. It’s hilarious, really. I’m studying the chemistry of the *Maillard reaction* and she’s just adding edible glitter to garbage and getting paid more for one post than I’ll make in a month on the line. And who’s the one actually here? Me. Always me. I am the one who wakes up at 5 AM to prep Mom’s meds, the one who changes the bedding when she has an accident, the one who handles the insurance calls that make me want to gouge my eyes out with a dull oyster knife. Sarah? She’s too busy "capturing the light" in her kitchen three states away. She sends a box of "artisan" cookies once a month and Mom acts like it’s a miracle from the heavens. "Look what Sarah made! She’s so talented!" Yeah, Mom, she’s a visionary. She put a pretzel on a cupcake. Meanwhile, I’m deboning a chicken with one hand while holding your walker with the other so you don't fall over and break a hip. Last night was the kicker. I spent eight hours—EIGHT HOURS—making a traditional Beef Wellington for Mom’s birthday. Everything from scratch. The puff pastry was literal glass, the duxelles was perfect, the tenderloin was a goddamn religious experience. I served it, and Mom takes one bite, sighs, and asks if I saw the video Sarah posted of her "three-ingredient cloud bread." She actually pulled out her phone and started scrolling while my food—real food, professional-grade cuisine—just sat there getting cold. She said, "It’s a shame you don't have her eye for presentation, honey. Your food is so... heavy." Heavy. It’s a Wellington, you absolute— I can't. I just can't. I just started laughing. Not a normal laugh, like a "I’ve finally lost my grip on reality" cackle. I told her maybe I should just quit school and start a blog about how to boil water for people who like beige furniture and aesthetic filters. She didn't get it. She never gets it. To her, I’m just the live-in help who happens to have a hobby in the kitchen.