You’ve got about four hours.”

I blinked. “Four hours?”

He nodded, already making himself comfortable on the couch. “Yeah. Just Mom, Dad, my sister, and her kids. Nothing big. Could you tidy up, run to the store, and cook something nice? Maybe a dessert too?” Then, as if he were doing me a favor, he handed me a note.

“What’s this?” I asked, irritation rising.

“A checklist,” he said.

I scanned the paper. Every task—cleaning, shopping, cooking—was mine. Nothing for him. Not one item. He flopped back on the couch, kicked up his feet, and began flipping through channels like he’d just solved world peace.

This wasn’t new. Surprise visits from his family had become a regular ambush. There was the time he “forgot” to mention his parents were staying overnight until I walked through the door with groceries. Or when his cousins