NURSE HOLLY!

Life has always been a bit interesting for me.My name is Holly, I'm 34 years old and I still live with my father.Of course I wasn't always like this though. Believe it or not I almost could've been the best of the family. I graduated second in my class. Not second from the bottom—second to the damn valedictorian. You’d think that’d earn me a break. Maybe even a crumb of respect. But no. The bullies still came for me like I was the town’s designated punching bag. Graduation dinner? Yeah, guess who “accidentally” ended up at the same restaurant as the entire jerkwad population of my class. They sang For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow loud enough to make my eardrums curl, and between verses, they lobbed spitballs and crumpled paper at me like it was a carnival game. Enter Dad. My plaid-pants, neon-polo-wearing, hair-frozen-in-1961 dad. He stood up, let loose a stream of profanity that could strip paint, and even offered to take one of the bullies’ dads outside. Didn’t change much, but hey—it made for a good family story. We lived in a seafoam green house with seafoam green shutters just shy of Myrtle Beach. Front yard was full of what the neighbors called “arrangements.” We had almost everything. Flowers, birdbaths, and yes—a garden gnome perched on a toilet, reading The Daily Post. Our house supposedly “blinded” people in the afternoon. Personally, I call that a load of crap. They were Mama’s favorite color. Mama was a knockout. Like, the kind of beautiful that made people stare, and not always kindly. She died when a drunk driver hit her car. I was six. Sydney was three. And Iggy was still in diapers. From that day on, Dad had nothing but us. Sydney grew up to be the family's Belle Beauty. Taking after Mama of course. In high school they called her “Jolene,” because apparently Dolly Parton wrote that song about her in advance. She had admirers from sixth grade all the way to now. You can still see the old ones trying their luck in her f*******: DMs. Not gonna happen. She’s got Roland Roy Sheindland. The schools once semi-famous football star and the yearbooks, "Most Likely to Succeed," Class of 2012. Tall, lean, dark hair, blue eyes, little goatee, and just enough scruff to still pass for a Johnny Depp lookalike, even with the beer belly. So yeah—Johnny Depp and Jolene got together. Now they’ve got six little heathens running around. And yes, they’re all just as dramatic as you think. Sydney’s a stay-at-home mom, and she’s fine with it. Thriving, actually. Royce's “Most Likely to Succeed” column in the yearbook basically came true—just not in the way anyone pictured. Royce didn’t just succeed, he became one of the top dentists in Myrtle Beach. Now they’ve got a nice-a*s house right on the shoreline, not far from ours, and Sydney spends her days doing whatever she pleases. She even naps in the middle of the day. A lot. I swear, if there were an Olympic sport for sleeping, she’d medal. Then there’s Iggy. Real name: Annabeth. She got the nickname when she was eight, after looking Dad dead in the eye over breakfast and asking, “Where the f*ck’s the orange juice?” She got her butt whooped, sure, but Dad thought it was hilarious—especially since her voice was so deep it sounded like a rock star’s. He started calling her Iggy, after Iggy Pop, and it stuck. While Sydney’s always been more of Mom’s style, Iggy inherited Dad’s eccentric streak. She dresses alternative, blasts heavy metal like it’s oxygen, and now adds pops of neon to her wardrobe like Dad used to. That personality paid off—she’s one of the top hosts on the shopping network. And she knows exactly what she’s selling. “Those are the ugliest f*cking muumuus I have ever seen. I don’t even know why we’re selling them,” she’ll say to me when watching her reruns. Her brand of weird also landed her Kenneth A. Radcliffe—a man with money, charm, and parents who own one of the biggest law firms in South Carolina. She calls him a rich a*shole as a joke, but he’s probably one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met. They met at a rock concert years ago, and now he spoils her rotten in their condo on the shoreline. Kids aren’t in the cards, at least not for Iggy, though Kenneth wouldn’t mind. Instead, they spend their time… well, “pleasuring each other every chance they get” is how she’d put it. As for me—after graduation, I went straight to med school, thinking I’d be an ER doctor. That flamed out quick. I dropped out and switched tracks to nursing. And honestly? Nursing suits me better. Less glory, more actual connection. Plus, the pay’s not bad. Then Dad collapsed. On the anniversary of Mama’s death, of all days. Every year since she died in ’97, he’d make the same pilgrimage: drive to her grave, boombox in one hand, daisies in the other. Daisies were her favorite. He’d set the flowers down, crank up her favorite songs, and just… sit there. This year, while lifting that big-ass boombox out of the trunk, his body just gave out. No warning. To this day, we still don’t know what caused it. The doctors didn’t either. All they knew was he’d need serious care and constant supervision from now on. My sisters? Too busy living their picture-perfect shoreline lives. Me? I looked at my calendar, saw nothing but school, and made the call. I quit nursing school cold. Now I’m Dad’s full-time personal care assistant and a pharmacy tech at the local drugstore. Between my paycheck, Dad’s retirement, and his disability checks, we’re doing just fine. Not rich, not desperate—just… steady. And honestly? For now, that’s not bad. Not bad at all.