Rules Don’t Mean Shit, Just Like Promises

When My Mom’s Chore Schedule Showed Me That Life’s Not Fucking Fair

I thought a stupid color-coded chore chart on the fridge would finally make things fair. One kick in the back that splintered the cabinet and my mom’s warm hug while she still sided with him showed me the truth: rules don’t mean shit, just like promises. If you were the kid who did all the fucking work while everyone else got a free pass, this one’s for you.

Trigger Warning: Raw descriptions of a child being violently kicked in the spine, fingernails raking skin, physical and verbal abuse in front of a silent parent, crushing favoritism, deliberate food withholding, and the exact second a little girl realizes even “fairness” is a trap.

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Dad fucking decided overnight that the paper route, the one that had always been my brother’s, was now mine. One freezing morning he ripped me out of bed before the sun even thought about coming up. He shoved that heavy goddamn stack of newspapers into my arms and drove me through the pitch-black streets. The icy wind sliced straight through my thin jacket like razors, numbing my hands until they burned raw. My freezing fingers folded and delivered every single one. When I dared open my mouth and say “This is Dougie’s job” his hand cracked across my cheek so hard my teeth rattled. Copper blood flooded my mouth, and the sidewalk slammed up into my knees.

That same bone-deep exhaustion followed me home. He poured me one single bowl of cereal. The milk was already lukewarm and the corn flakes sat there like soggy cardboard. Dougie whined in that high nasal voice that always worked on Dad and without a word Dad kept refilling his bowl. Golden pieces piled higher and higher while mine sat empty in front of me. My stomach growled so loud it sounded savage. Dad looked straight at me and said “Brush your teeth and get your bookbag ready. You’re going to miss the bus.” I only ever got one fucking bowl.

I raced upstairs, brushed as fast as my shaking hands would move, and flew back down the stairs. I reached for the doorknob when his voice stopped me cold.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“To the bus stop.”

“You need to wash the breakfast dishes first.”

I glanced at the clock. My stomach twisted into knots. “I’ll miss my bus.”

His hand smacked the back of my head so hard it shoved my small body toward the kitchen. “You would’ve had plenty of damn time if you didn’t stand here arguing with me.”

My head throbbed. I pressed my hand to it and ran to the sink. I washed those fucking dishes as fast as I could while the bus engine roared louder down our street. I dried them, shoved them into the cupboard, and grabbed my bag again.

“Aren’t you gonna say good-bye first?” Dad asked, voice flat, like he hadn’t just hit me.

I ran back, stretched up on my tiptoes, and pressed my lips to his scratchy cheek. He smelled like stale coffee, cigarette smoke, and the sour tang of last night’s whisky. My head still pounded where he’d just hit me but I kissed him anyway because that was what I was supposed to do. I didn’t understand why the same hand that slapped me wanted my kiss right after but I gave it anyway, hoping it would make everything okay again.

“Good-bye,” I whispered.

At dinner that night, Dougie and I had been fighting nonstop over whose turn it was to set or clean off the table like we always did. My dad would stomp into the kitchen and ask my brother every damn time, “What the hell’s going on in here? I hear you fighting with your sister.” My brother would always respond the same way, “Nothing… Uh… I don’t know.” Then my dad would turn to me and bark “You’ll fucking set the table and do the damn dishes for fighting with your brother.”

Mom finally had enough and slapped a color-coded chart on the fridge thinking it would stop the fighting once and for all and make everything fair and square.

That day I set the table. The green square said it was Dougie’s turn to clean up. But the table stayed dirty anyway and there I was at the sink with suds up to my elbows when the words came out before I could stop them.

“I set the table. It’s Dougie’s turn according to the schedule.”

Dad’s chair scraped back from the kitchen table. I didn’t even have time to turn around. His foot slammed into the small of my back. The kick lifted me clean off the floor and slammed my pelvic bone hard into the wood cabinet. The cabinet door splintered. I hit the floor hard. That one kick told me everything I needed to know. The schedule, the fucking rules, every fucking promise of fairness in this house was pure bullshit.

He grabbed the collar of my shirt, fingernails digging into my cheeks hard enough to break the skin, and wrenched my head around so I was staring at the splintered cabinet door.

“You little shit. You broke the cabinet! If you’d just do your damn chores without running your fucking mouth, this wouldn’t have happened!”

I bit the inside of my mouth until I tasted hot copper. I refused to let the tears fall. I refused to let him see any of it.

He hauled me up by the neck, shoved me toward the sink, and snarled “Now clean this fucking kitchen. I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth the rest of the night.”

Mom’s footsteps came behind me. She walked in, saw me shaking at the sink, and pulled me into her arms without a word. Her body was soft and warm and the sweet familiar smell of her Skin-So-Soft body oil wrapped around me like it always did. I let myself sink into her. For a few seconds the fire burning down my spine eased. I pressed my face into her chest and breathed her in deep. This was the part that always made me feel safe. When Mom held me like this it felt like she was the only one in this fucked up house that loved me.

She rubbed slow circles on my back and said softly “I know it was Dougie’s turn on the schedule, Steph. I saw it.”

My whole body relaxed a little more. She saw it. She knew I wasn’t lying.

“But you can’t talk to your dad like that, honey. You know how he gets when you run your mouth. You’re the big sister now. You’re supposed to help Dougie and not make things harder.”

She kept holding me, stroking my hair the way she used to when I was smaller.

“Besides, your dad doesn’t beat you. He just gets frustrated sometimes when you argue back.”

The sweet smell of her skin was still in my nose, her arms still warm around me, but something cold and heavy dropped into my stomach anyway. I stayed quiet against her, breathing in that safe smell even while her words twisted inside me like the pain in my back.

After that the schedule might as well have been fucking invisible. Every night Dad’s voice would boom from the living room: “Stephanie! Table!” or “Stephanie! Kitchen!” I’d drop whatever I was doing, homework, drawing, the music I’d blast in my room, and run downstairs because I already knew what happened when I didn’t. Dougie would bolt out the back door, screen slamming behind him, cool night air rushing in while I scraped plates and hauled trash into the dark.

I never said another word about the damn purple and green squares curling at the edges on the fridge.

That night I learned the newest brutal fucking truths wired into my bones: the rules didn’t mean shit, just like promises. I had no fucking help doing chores. I was the slave while everyone got to go have fun and do what the fuck they wanted. They expected me to shut up and fucking take it. I was still completely on my own and fucking always would be.

That same wiring followed me straight into adulthood. Everything always landed on my shoulders. I became the rock for my kids, for family, for friends, for every damn person who needed something. I was still expected to shut up the fuck up, take it, and keep carrying the load without complaint. I didn’t know how to be anything else.

Have you ever been the so-called “rock” of your family. The kid who did all the fucking work while everyone else got a free pass? Did you learn the hard way that rules, schedules, and promises of fairness were pure bullshit?

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