I thought a long weekend at the family ranch meant cold drinks, fireworks, and time to unwind with my best friend, Casey. When Aunt Laura invited us to stay, I imagined lazy porch swings and lake swims—not being shoved into a kids’ room to babysit four toddlers. The moment Aunt Claire handed us piles of pajamas and casually announced we’d be bunking with her little ones, something in my gut said this wasn’t going to end in sparklers and s’mores.

Trying to keep the peace, Casey and I took the couch instead, hoping for a quiet night. But that wasn’t enough for Aunt Claire. She stormed in like we’d insulted her ancestors, shouting about “family duty” and accusing us of treating the trip like a spa retreat. No one defended us. Not Uncle Tom, not Aunt Laura, not even emotionally-vacant Uncle Ron. So we left. We packed up our stuff, hit the road, and headed to a friend’s lake house where we were actually wanted—no expectations, no guilt, just laughter and sparklers under the stars.

The next morning brought a storm of missed calls and texts. Apparently, they were furious we’d taken the cooler, drinks, and snacks I bought and packed myself. It was the final insult—they’d expected me to foot the bill, babysit all night, and smile while doing it. When Aunt Laura sent a passive-aggressive email titled “Disappointed,” I didn’t reply. I just Venmo-requested her for half the groceries. She declined it with a single word: “Wow.”

But that “wow” said everything I needed to know. I’m done being the family’s free labor just because I’m the youngest and too polite to say no. From now on, my Fourth of July will be fireworks on my terms—cooler packed with my favorites, friends who respect my time, and peace that doesn’t need to be earned. Some traditions deserve to die quietly with the paper plates they were served on.