My mother said, “Your sister is the star. You’re the foundation — you’re built to hold things up.” So I stood tall. Then they asked for $85,000.
What I did left them speechless. I’m standing in my parents’ living room, and something feels wrong. The air is thick with a tension I can’t quite name yet.
Mom and Dad sit on the couch like they’re posing for a funeral portrait. Backs rigid, hands folded. Tatum perches on the ottoman, dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled tissue even though her mascara looks perfect.
Garrett leans against the wall near the window, arms crossed, radiating the kind of confidence that comes from never having to face real consequences. “Thanks for coming on such short notice, sweetheart,” Mom says. Her voice has that careful smoothness she uses when she’s about to ask for something big.
I lower myself into the armchair across from them, my work bag still on my shoulder. “You said it was urgent.”
Dad clears his throat but doesn’t meet my eyes. That’s the first real warning sign.
My father has looked me in the eye through every difficult conversation we’ve ever had, from the sex talk to the time I wrecked his truck at seventeen. But not today. “Mom?” I ask.
Mom straightens her spine. “Tatum and Garrett are losing the house.”
The words hit me like cold water. I blink, processing, while Tatum’s tissue rises to her face again.
“The bank gave us thirty days,” Garrett adds, his tone almost casual, like he’s discussing a delayed package delivery instead of complete financial collapse. I look at my sister. She won’t look back.
“We’ve already helped as much as we can,” Mom continues. “We took $40,000 from our 401(k) last month.”
My stomach drops. Forty thousand dollars.
Their retirement cushion. The one Dad spent thirty years building. Gone.
“We need you to cover the rest,” Mom says. “Eighty-five thousand.”
The number hangs in the air between us. I feel my ears start to ring, just slightly, like someone turned up the volume on a sound only I can hear.
The room tilts, just a degree or two, enough to make me grip the armrest. “Eighty-five thousand,” I repeat. “I know it’s a lot,” Mom says, and there’s something in her voice that makes my chest tighten.
Not apology. Expectation. “But family takes care of family.”
I glance at Dad again.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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