My brother got married—and I wasn’t told. I found out the way strangers do: a photo on my phone, taken while I sat in a Kansas City coffee shop, a paper cup warming my hands.

I made a pot of soup and called Janelle from the non‑profit to talk through the spring workshop series—credit scores, predatory contracts, taxes for gig workers who don’t realize their “brand deals” are taxable income. “Can we add a session on ‘friendly’ loans?” she asked. “Half of these kids are the first in their families to touch money. Their uncles are already circling.”

“We can,” I said. “We’ll call it ‘Don’t Mix Groceries with Gasoline.’”

“Because?”

“Because love is groceries. Loans are gasoline. One feeds the house; the other explodes it if you pretend they’re the same.”

She laughed. “Kayla, put that on a T‑shirt.”