“We’re Renovating Your Childhood Room For The Baby,” My Sister Said, Standing In My Doorway With…
The Nursery Ambush
“We’re renovating your childhood room for the baby,” my sister said, standing in my doorway with paint samples.
I was 28, still living at home, paying $2,400 monthly rent to my parents.
“Where am I supposed to sleep?” I asked.
Dad shrugged.
“Figure it out. Family expands.” he said.
I moved out that night.
Emily breezed into my doorway like she was hosting a makeover show. She held a fan of paint samples in one hand and a taped-up Pinterest printout in the other.
I blinked at her from the edge of my bed. My uniform pants were still half unbuttoned, my shirt tossed on the chair like a dead flag.
I had gotten off a 24-hour shift two hours ago. I still smelled like smoke and wet ash, like a burned story that wouldn’t wash out.
“What?” I said.
Emily smiled the way she smiled when she had already decided the ending.
“Isn’t it exciting?” she chirped.
“We’re thinking soft sage or warm oatmeal. Oh, and there’s this really cute accent wall with little clouds.” she said.
“It’s gender-neutral but still cozy, you know.” she added.
I looked past her down the hall to where my dad stood with his coffee mug and his “I’m too tired for feelings” face. My mom hovered behind him, trying to look supportive while also pretending she wasn’t part of the ambush.
I was 28, still living at home because I was a firefighter and my schedule was brutal. For the past year, my parents had been helping me save by letting me rent my old room for $2,400 a month.
That number felt like a bruise every time I said it out loud. Emily tapped the paint samples against my door frame like a judge with a gavel.
“We’re starting this weekend.” she said.
My mouth opened and stayed there for a second, like my brain needed a moment to catch up to the audacity.
“Where am I supposed to sleep?” I finally asked.
Emily’s smile didn’t move.
“Oh, you’ll figure something out. You’re resourceful.” she replied.
Evicted by Family
I turned to my dad.
“Dad?” I said.
He shrugged, not even a full shrug, but a half shrug like the question bored him.
“Figure it out. Family expands.” he said.
That was it; that was the explanation. That was my eviction notice.
I felt heat rush up my neck. Not the controlled heat of a fire you understand, that you can read, that you can fight.
This was the kind of heat that comes from realizing you’ve been standing in the wrong building the whole time and it’s already collapsing.
“I pay you,” I said slowly, each word like stepping on glass.
“2,400 a month.” I reminded them.
My mom lifted her hands like she could physically catch the tension.
“Max, don’t make this into a—” she started.
“Hey, what?” I snapped.
“A problem? It is a problem.” I said.
Emily sighed like I was being dramatic on purpose.
“You’re not paying for that room. You’re paying to live here.” she said.
I stared at her.
“And living here includes not having a room?” I asked.
My dad took a sip of coffee like we were discussing weather.
“It’s temporary.” he said.
“How temporary?” I asked.
Emily’s eyes lit up.
“Well, the baby’s due in four months, but obviously we want the nursery ready early, and then, you know, newborn stage and then sleep training and then toddler stage.” she explained.
“So,” I said, my voice going flat.
“Never.” I concluded.
My mom tried again.
“Sweetheart, Emily needs support. You’re her brother.” she said.
I laughed once, and it came out ugly.
“I’m her brother, not her spare room.” I repeated.
Emily stepped forward, still holding paint samples like weapons.
“You don’t even use the room half the time. You’re always at the station. And when you are here, you just sleep.” she argued.
“Yes,” I said.
“Because I’m a firefighter.” I added.
She rolled her eyes.
“Here we go.” she said.
Something in me snapped, not loud or cinematic, just a quiet little click like a door locking.
I stood up. My knees felt stiff from a long night of hauling hoses, forcing entry, and carrying a woman down a smoke-filled stairwell while she screamed for her cat.
My body was tired in the deep way that doesn’t fix itself with sleep, but my mind suddenly felt clear.
“Okay,” I said.
Emily blinked.
“Okay.” she repeated.
I walked past her into the hallway. My dad watched me like he didn’t believe me, like he expected me to collapse into compliance like I always did.
I opened the linen closet and pulled out the duffel bag I kept tucked behind old towels.
“Max, what are you doing?” My mom’s voice sharpened.
I went into my room and started packing without ceremony: jeans, work shirts, socks.
My turnout boots were at the station, but everything else I owned was here, including the framed photo of me in academy gear that my mom kept insisting on putting on the mantle like it proved she was proud.
Emily laughed nervously.
“Okay, don’t be dramatic. We’re just talking.” she said.
“I’m not,” I said, zipping the duffel.
My dad’s tone shifted slightly.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
I paused, looking at him. It hit me then that the way he asked wasn’t worried; it wasn’t “Are you okay?” or “Can we talk?”
It was more like, “What inconvenience is this going to create for us?”
“I’m moving out,” I said.
My mom’s face tightened.
“Max, you can’t, just can’t.” she said.
“I repeated,” I said.
“You just told me I don’t have a room anymore. That seems like a pretty clear message.” I stated.
Emily scoffed.
“You’re acting like we kicked you out.” she said.
I looked right at her.
“You did.” I replied.
My dad set his mug down with a soft clink.
“Don’t be petty.” he said.
“Petty?” I echoed, and I could feel my voice climbing.
“I pay you more than most people pay for a mortgage, and you’re taking my room without even asking me.” I said.
My mom’s eyes flashed.
“We’re family.” she said.
I stared at her.
“Then stop charging me rent.” I challenged.
Silence followed, the kind of silence that tells you everything. Emily’s smile reappeared, thin and sharp.
“You’re going to regret being like this when you need us.” she said.
I slung the duffel over my shoulder.
