When I was sixteen, I wanted what almost every teenager wants — freedom. I wanted the windows rolled down, music blasting, the chance to go somewhere without asking for permission or waiting for a ride. I had been taking lessons and inching toward my driver’s license, but my mom made it harder than it needed to be. She pushed me to get it, yet when it came to practicing outside of lessons, she always found a reason not to take me.

“We’re moving, I have to pack.”
“I’m too tired today.”
“I can’t leave your sister alone.”

Her excuses were endless. My younger sister Lilah was thirteen at the time, my brother was home too, but somehow I was told I couldn’t expect twenty minutes of her time. Each time she brushed me off, my chance at independence slipped further away.

This was also around the time Lilah had just started attending private school. Up until then, all of us had been homeschooled, so it was a huge shift in our family routine. Suddenly there were strict uniforms, drop-offs, soccer practices, early mornings, and a daily schedule that revolved around getting her across town. My mom wore the shift like a badge of honor, but she also leaned on me to help manage the logistics. For me, learning to drive stopped being about independence, it became about filling in the gaps she left.

Eventually, I pressed harder. I wanted what my peers already had. I wanted to drive myself to class, to work, to anywhere. My brother Liam, a year older than me, wanted nothing to do with driving. To him, it meant responsibility, and he didn’t want to be relied on. But my parents roped him into it anyway. We tested on the same day. I passed. He didn’t.

That small victory should have been sweet. Instead, it immediately came with more weight. My parents found an old Nissan Sentra on Craigslist and bought it for us to share. It was generous of them, yes, but it also came with unspoken strings.

Right after I passed my test at seventeen, my mother got a call that her sister in Tennessee had been diagnosed with cancer. She booked a ticket and announced I’d be responsible for the family while she was gone.

“You’ll need to drive your siblings around. Soccer practice, school, errands. Your dad works twelve-hour days. He can’t help. You can.”

The problem was, in California, drivers under eighteen aren’t legally allowed to transport minors. I had just passed my test, and the thought of being pulled over or getting in an accident terrified me. I told her this. She shamed me instantly.

“How selfish. My sister is dying. All I’m asking is for you to step up for one week. Don’t you see how much I do for you?”

So I did what she wanted. I drove her to LAX, white-knuckling the steering wheel through the madness of that airport. I dropped her off and drove back home alone, shaking with relief when I finally pulled into the driveway.

The next day, I had my first job interview. No one in the family knew I had even applied. I wanted that independence so badly, and I walked in nervous but hopeful. When they offered me the job, it felt like my own private victory.

That week was a blur of driving Lilah to school and soccer, taking my brother Ethan to his classes, picking up groceries, and starting work. By the time my mom’s flight landed back at LAX, I thought maybe, just maybe, she’d see the effort I had made.

Instead, when she saw me standing alone at the pickup, her face fell.
“It’s just you?” she asked.

She wanted the whole family lined up like a welcoming committee. She wanted to be the hero returning home to applause. All she got was me, plus our family dog who I had nervously brought along for company on the long drive. Her disappointment cut through me like glass. I had spent a week breaking the law, holding everything together, and even landing my first job — but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

A month later, she told me I had to pay for gas. Then $100 a month toward the car. Then my own clothes. Then part of my phone bill. I did it all. Soon Liam passed his test too, and he was shoved into the same pattern — get a job, pay your share, drive Lilah around, cover the grocery runs. Estella withdrew more and more into her bed, watching TV, criticizing us, blaming my dad, blaming us, blaming anyone.

The Sentra became a symbol of conflict. Liam and I fought constantly over who got it, whose schedule mattered more, who was stranded waiting for a ride. My parents decided the solution was another car, and without warning, they bought one. Except they didn’t really buy it.

I had been saving cash for months, stashing it away in a jar in my room. Over time I had built up $2,000, something that felt like real security. I had told my mom about it once, in passing, not realizing what a mistake that was.

While I was at work, she took it. Every last bill from the jar. When I got home, she announced they had used it to help pay for the car. “You’re ungrateful,” she told me when I reacted. “You wanted another car, and we got one. It’ll get replenished. You should be thanking us.”

I didn’t feel grateful. I felt robbed. It wasn’t the money itself — it was the fact that my space had been invaded, my independence stolen, my effort dismissed. I had been treated like a child when it suited her and like an adult when she needed me to carry the weight. I realized then that it was never about fairness or partnership. It was about control.

I was growing up, and she refused to.