My name is David Carter.
I'm a high school student. I live in Edmonton, and I'm part of a four-person household that somehow generates more noise and drama than it should. We're a Black family, which means mornings are loud, opinions are strong, and respect is non-negotiable—especially before sunrise.
On this particular morning, I woke up before my alarm.
That alone made my stomach tighten.
I didn't open my eyes right away. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house. It was quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Suspicious quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you think, nah… some nigga already pulled some shit.
In our house, silence usually means someone already messed up, and I'm about to be involved against my will.
My alarm was set for 6:15 a.m.
I checked my phone.
6:02.
Thirteen minutes early.
I sighed and put the phone down. Waking up before my alarm always meant the day would be annoying in very specific ways. Not tragic. Just exhausting. The kind of day where nothing goes wrong enough to complain about, but everything feels slightly cursed.
I sat up.
That's when I saw it.
The hook beside my door was empty.
I stared at it.
No. I put it there last night.
I stepped closer and checked again, like the hoodie might feel bad and come back.
Nothing.
The hoodie was gone.
My chest dropped.
…This nigga.
There was only one person in this house bold enough to steal my hoodie without asking and walk around like she bought it.
"Lizy," I muttered. "You've got to be kidding me."
I stepped into the hallway. The floor was freezing against my socks. Her door was cracked open.
Empty bed.
Shoes gone.
Of course.
I headed downstairs already irritated.
The kitchen lights were on.
That alone pissed me off.
Then I smelled toast and hot chocolate.
Yeah. This nigga woke up comfortable.
Lizy Carter was sitting at the table, legs swinging, elbows on the surface like she had nowhere else to be. She was wearing my hoodie—my hoodie—the thick one meant for winter mornings when Edmonton feels personal about its cold. The sleeves swallowed her hands.
She looked warm. Comfortable.
Way too damn comfortable.
She looked up and smiled.
"Morning."
I stared at her.
"Take it off."
Before anything else, let me explain Lizy.
Lizy Carter is my younger sister. Same parents. Same house. Completely different operating system. Where I think things through, she moves first and enjoys the consequences later. Chaos follows her like a side quest, and she always looks innocent while doing the most.
Back to the crime.
She blinked, glanced down at the hoodie, then back at me.
"Oh," she said. "This?"
"Yes. That."
She pulled the sleeves down even farther and wrapped her hands around her mug.
"I thought it was the family hoodie."
"The hell is a family hoodie?" I said. "Nigga, that's mine."
She tilted her head, pretending to think, then smirked.
"But it's warm," she said. "And it was cold."
I clenched my jaw.
"What are you doing wearing it?" I asked.
She smiled wider.
"What are you gonna do? Fight me?"
I opened my mouth—
Footsteps.
My dad walked into the kitchen, already dressed for work, coffee mug in hand.
This is Chris Carter.
My dad doesn't yell. He doesn't argue. He just looks at you until you realize you're about to lose. In our house, that look ends conversations.
He took one glance at the scene—me standing stiff, Lizy smirking, the hoodie—and sighed.
"Why," he said calmly, "are we starting the day like this?"
"She took my hoodie," I said immediately.
"I borrowed it," Lizy said. "Sharing."
Dad raised an eyebrow.
"Without asking?"
"We're family," she said, smiling. "That's how it works."
"Why are you wearing your brother's hoodie?" he asked.
"Because it fits my spirit."
I slapped the table lightly.
"Dad—"
He lifted one finger.
I shut up instantly.
Yeah. I should've stayed in bed, I told myself.
"Take it off," he said to Lizy.
Lizy took a slow sip of hot chocolate.
Like… disrespectfully slow.
Then she smiled.
"No."
The silence after that was insane.
I was genuinely shocked she had the audacity to say no to him. Like, bold. Reckless. Suicidal.
Dad stared at her. She stared back. I stood there thinking, ain't no way this is happening before sunrise.
Dad turned his head slightly.
"Mary."
Upstairs, a voice answered immediately.
"What."
That's my mom.
Mary Carter is kind of like the final boss of our household. No cutscenes. No warnings. When she enters, the situation ends.
Lizy's smirk wavered.
Mom came downstairs moments later, hair wrapped, slippers quiet, eyes sharp. She took one look at me, then Lizy, then the hoodie.
"Why," she asked evenly, "is the house loud at six in the morning?"
"I didn't do anything," I said quickly. "She took my hoodie."
Lizy smiled sweetly.
"Mommy, I was just—"
"Go upstairs."
"But—"
"Do you want to explain," Mom asked calmly, "or do you want to obey?"
She paused.
"Also, give me that hoodie."
Lizy swallowed, handed over the hoodie, and went upstairs without another word.
I relaxed.
Too early.
Mom turned to me.
"And you. Sit."
"What?" I said.
"I said sit. Don't make me repeat myself."
I sat.
Dad sat too, sipping his coffee like this was background noise.
"Every morning," Mom said, "there is noise. Every morning, there is drama. And every morning, somebody acts surprised when there are consequences."
"But I—"
"Be quiet!" she snapped. "Don't you speak when I speak. You hear me?"
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
"Tell 'em, honey," my dad said, backing her up while sipping his coffee.
I was confused, but not surprised. This is how Black parents operate. Right, wrong, innocent—it doesn't matter.
"You know what?" she said. "I know what I'm going to do."
Uh oh.
Mom folded the hoodie neatly and placed it on top of the fridge.
"That hoodie," she said, "is now mine."
"What?" I said.
"You want to fight me?" she replied, dead serious.
"It's minus fifteen outside," I said. "And I gotta go to school."
"Then walk fast."
"What?" I said again.
Dad nodded. "You heard your mother."
Then he leaned back like he was about to tell a war story.
"Back in my day," he started, "we didn't have hoodies. We had hope. And even that was optional. We walked to school in the rain, in the cold, uphill—both ways somehow—with holes in our shoes. Sometimes we didn't even have shoes. Just vibes."
"I couldn't even afford a bus ticket," he continued. "Matter of fact, there was no bus. We were the bus."
"Yeah, that's right," my mom added proudly. "Tell 'em, honey."
I stared at them.
How did these two psychos meet? I wondered. Sometimes I think they actually planned for me to suffer before I was even born.
Lizy came back downstairs with her bag, passing behind me.
She leaned in just enough for me to hear.
Smiling, she whispered, "Thanks for the hoodie, nigga."
I stared straight ahead.
You motherfucker, I said in my mind.
This wasn't a bad Monday.
It was just another episode in the Carter household.
And somehow, my hoodie had started a war before breakfast.
Yep… This is my life.