I remember being twelve. It wasn’t that long ago, really, but it feels like a different universe. My mom got the night shift at St. Jude’s – the hospital, not the church – because the pay was better. Suddenly, I was in charge. Every single night. The routine was etched into my brain. The school bus dropped us off at 3:15 PM. Me, then Emily, who was ten, then Liam, eight, and finally little Sarah, who was six. The second we walked in the door, it started. Backpacks dumped by the shoe rack. I’d make sure Liam and Sarah got their snack – usually Goldfish crackers or apple slices – while Emily went straight to her homework. My mom would leave a list on the fridge. Always a list. “Emily: math page 52, read chapter 3. Liam: spelling words, practice multiplication tables. Sarah: draw a picture for Grandma, practice writing her name.” My list was just implied: make sure everything gets done. Dinner was always the biggest thing. My mom would do a big grocery shop on Sunday, so the fridge was full, but she’d leave a meal plan too. Monday was spaghetti. Tuesday, chicken nuggets and fries. Wednesday, tacos. It was always pretty basic stuff, nothing complicated, but I had to cook it. I remember the first time I burnt the spaghetti. I’d set the timer for ten minutes, but I got distracted helping Sarah find her crayon and suddenly the smell was everywhere. The noodles were glued to the bottom of the pot, completely black. I cried, silently, while Emily tried to scrape it out. We ended up having cereal for dinner that night, and I prayed my mom wouldn’t notice the burnt pot. She did. She just sighed, but that sigh felt like a fucking punch. I’d get them all settled with their homework, usually at the kitchen table. Emily was pretty independent, but Liam needed a lot of prodding, and Sarah… well, Sarah just wanted to play. I’d sit there, doing my own homework, but mostly just monitoring. “Liam, did you finish your spelling words?” “Sarah, remember what Mrs. Davis said about holding your pencil?” All while keeping an eye on the clock. 5:30 PM was dinner time. No exceptions. My mom would call around 6:00 PM, always, to check in. I had to have dinner on the table, homework mostly done, and everyone fed. It was a performance, every single night. Sometimes, after dinner, it was bath time for the younger two. Sarah would splash water everywhere, and Liam would complain about washing his hair. I’d try to make it fun, like a game, but honestly, I was just counting down the minutes until 8:00 PM, when they were supposed to be in bed. Emily was allowed to stay up until 9:00 PM to read. I’d finally get to my own homework, usually around 8:30 PM, sitting at the kitchen table in the quiet house, the only sounds the hum of the fridge and the occasional snore from one of the kids. My mom would get home around 7:00 AM. I’d usually be up already, getting ready for school. She’d look exhausted. Sometimes she’d just drop her bag and go straight to bed. Other times, she’d ask me how things went. “Everything okay, honey?” And I’d always say, “Yeah, fine. Everything’s fine.” Because what else was I going to say? That I was absolutely fucking exhausted? That I felt like I was running a small orphanage? That I was so sick of making mac and cheese? Now, I’m twenty. I live in an apartment off-campus. I don’t have to cook dinner for anyone but myself. I don’t have to check homework or break up fights or make sure someone brushed their teeth. But sometimes, when I’m tired, or stressed, or just feeling off, I still hear the mental clock ticking. 3:15 PM, kids home. 5:30 PM, dinner. 8:00 PM, bed. It’s ingrained. And sometimes I look at the microwave, or a pot on the stove, and I just… freeze for a second. That feeling of absolute responsibility, of needing to get everything right, it’s still there. It’s always there.