“…for your sister.”
That was the sentence that finally snapped something in me—because it wasn’t whispered, or said behind closed doors. It was shouted like a command, like my money was a family resource he could withdraw whenever he felt like it, as casually as taking change from a jar on the counter. It started at 2:00 a.m.
on a random Tuesday, when my phone lit up with an automated alert that made my stomach drop before I’d even fully processed the words: $450 past due—power scheduled for disconnection in 48 hours at the Oak Street property.
The family house. The one my parents live in.
The one my 24-year-old sister Madison treats like a hotel whenever her latest “new chapter” hits a wall and she needs a place to regroup, redecorate her Instagram aesthetic, and pretend the consequences of her choices don’t exist. I stared at the glowing screen in my dark bedroom, feeling that familiar weight settle onto my shoulders—the weight of being the one who always picks up the pieces.
The responsible one.
The fixer. Three weeks earlier, I’d sent my mom $1,000 with a text that said simply, “For bills.” She’d replied with a heart emoji and “You’re such a blessing, Logan.” The lights should’ve been covered for months. They weren’t.
And I already knew where that money went, even if no one would say it out loud.
So I paid it. Again.
I logged into the utility company’s website, entered my credit card information for what felt like the hundredth time, and watched another $450 vanish from my account. Because that’s what I always do.
I’m the steady one, the one with the good job and the savings account and the credit score that doesn’t make loan officers wince.
I’m the one who gets the 2 a.m. panic calls when something is about to fall apart. And Oak Street isn’t just a house—it’s a three-generation Victorian with real bones and history, my grandpa’s pride and joy, the place where I spent summers learning to sand wood and measure twice and cut once.
Five years ago, my father used that house as collateral for what he called a “can’t-miss business opportunity”—some investment scheme his golf buddy pitched over scotch and expensive cigars.
The deal collapsed within six months, taking forty thousand dollars of borrowed money with it. The bank moved fast.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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