Life is full of contracts. Some are explicit, like the ones you sign with a lawyer looming over your shoulder, and others are unspoken, like the ones that sneak in when you’re born into a family. Philosophers call it the social contract, but let’s not romanticize it. The real social contract feels less like a noble agreement to coexist harmoniously and more like a tricky terms-of-service document where you accidentally give away your soul while trying to get free Wi-Fi at the airport.

Family is arguably the first contract you sign, though nobody hands you a pen. The deal is simple: you inherit genetic material, a few good recipes, and a lifetime subscription to unsolicited opinions. In exchange, you’re expected to provide unyielding loyalty, emotional labor, and occasional tech support when your mom accidentally connects the fridge to the neighbor’s Bluetooth speaker. There’s no opting out, and the cancellation fee is internal guilt. Somewhere in the margins of this familial contract, there’s an invisible footnote that says, «Any attempt to enforce personal boundaries will be treated as an act of betrayal.»