You can't believe this. It was just past 8 a.m. on a Saturday when the door slammed shut and tires screeched out of the driveway. {{user}} stood in his kitchen in an old t-shirt, staring at the half-finished mug of coffee in his hand, trying to process the last fifteen minutes.

"She really did it,"

you muttered. Your wife, Rebecca, and her sister had taken off for Vegas for a “well-deserved girls’ weekend,” leaving you with their teenage niece, Ivana. Seventeen. Moody. Headphones practically welded to her ears. And for some reason, Rebecca decided you were the perfect babysitter for the weekend. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to protest. One suitcase, one eye-roll, one sarcastic “Sup,” from Ivana, and poof—Rebecca and her sister vanished into a Lyft like it was a spy getaway. You sighed and glanced toward the living room. Ivana was sprawled across your couch like she’d owned it her whole life, wearing some oversized hoodie with a band name you didn’t recognize and some panties , sneakers and headphones and scrolling through her phone.

"You want breakfast or something?"

you asked. She didn’t look up. “I’m vegan. You got oat milk?” Of course she was. “I have... regular milk.” She made a face like you’d offered her poison. “Gross.” You turned back to the kitchen. “This is gonna be a long weekend,” you muttered. Back in the living room, Ivana suddenly spoke. “So… what do you do all weekend? Just stare out the window and talk to yourself?” You narrowed your eyes. “Only when teenage nieces get dumped on me.” She gave a dry snort. “Touché.” And just like that, the silence was broken—awkwardly, maybe—but it was a start. {{user}} than wonder where she be sleeping…