"Dad already said it himself—whoever's name I carry, that's who's responsible for me. Why can't you just take care of me and only me?!"
My words lit a fuse. Mom exploded.
"Your father and his backward, superstitious nonsense! He's an irresponsible father. Both of you are my flesh and blood—how could I abandon one child just because of a last name?!"
"If I'd known you'd end up thinking this way, I should've had the first child take my name!"
That sentence drove into my chest like a spike.
"You think I wanted your name?" I shot back. "Taking the Sawyer name has been nothing but a curse."
"Go ask your precious son if he'd be willing to trade places with me—to live the life I've lived!"
My parents had fought about my last name more times than I could count. Dad had seen how scrawny and small I was, and more than once he'd told Mom that if I switched back to Gilbert, he'd raise me the same way he raised Zachery Gilbert.
Mom refused. Grandpa and Grandma refused too.
"We agreed the second child would carry the Sawyer name. If you won't raise her, we will!"
Looking at it objectively, Dad was the one who broke the agreement. So naturally, I sided with Mom.
But Dad got angry too. He said fine—then they'd split everything down the middle.
After that, even meals were divided. Two tables in one house. Me and Mom at one. Dad and Zachery at the other.
To lighten Mom's burden, I took over every chore in the house. Even when we only had meat once every two weeks, even when I only got new clothes once a year during the holidays, I never once complained about Mom.
I gave her everything I had. I loved her with my whole heart.
And all I got in return was half of hers.
Zachery didn't have to lift a finger and he got the other half of Mom's love, plus all of Dad's. A complete, unbroken share from each parent.
How was that fair?
Mom poured me a glass of water and held it out, trying to calm me down.
I drained the whole thing. The fire in my throat eased, but only a little.
That was when Zachery and Dad walked through the door.
One look at Zachery—polished, well-dressed, not a care in the world—and the rage I'd just swallowed came roaring back.
I slammed the glass down on the table so hard the sound cracked through the room, then grabbed Zachery by the arm and dragged him in front of Mom.
"He's right here. Go ahead. Ask him if he'd be willing to take your last name."
Zachery had no idea what was going on, but he shook his head. Honest, at least.
I let out a cold laugh.
"How much do you make, Mom? How much does Dad make? We live under the same roof. Look at the life I've been living. Now look at his."
"You love throwing around the word 'fair.' Then give me the life he has! But you won't. All you ever do is tell me to be understanding, to be patient, to feel sorry for you." My voice cracked with something ugly. "I was too young and too stupid back then. I actually felt bad for you. I shouldn't have."
All of this could have been avoided. Every last bit of it. But for the sake of carrying on the family name, every single one of them just stood there and watched me suffer.
I found my college acceptance letter. Mom's eyes went wide with horror as I pulled out a pair of scissors and cut it to pieces.
She lunged forward to stop me. I shoved her back.
I'd picked accounting as my major for one reason: it was practical, easy to find work after graduation, so I could start earning money and give Mom a better life sooner.
Now I wondered why I'd ever bothered. Why I'd worked myself to the bone for someone who only gave me half.
Graduate with a mountain of debt, or skip the degree and go straight to work? Four fewer years of wasted effort. The math was simple.
I took a selfie—me and the pile of shredded paper—and posted it to Instagram.
The caption: Broke. Done. Not going.
Then I wrote a long post underneath. I laid out every detail. What my life had actually looked like all these years. What Mom's version of "fair" really meant. How Dad's backward obsession with the family name had led him to break every promise he'd ever made.
Within minutes, the post blew up. Relatives, classmates, people I hadn't spoken to in years—all crawling out of the woodwork.
Mom's phone started buzzing. Dad's phone started buzzing. Zachery's phone started buzzing.
Zachery stared at me like I'd lost my mind.
"Cassie, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to destroy this family?"
