“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t. But I noticed the Porsche and the Mercedes in the driveway. Maybe start by selling those.”
“We need those cars for work,” Clara snapped, suddenly sharp.
“You need them more than you need to be safe?” I asked.
My mother stepped closer, voice rising. “This house you bought—if you sold it, you could pay off Clara’s debt and still have money left for a nice apartment.”
A nice apartment.
The phrase hit an old nerve, like they were trying to shove me back into the cramped life I’d clawed my way out of.
“Mom,” I said, trembling with anger now, “I worked my ass off for that house. I saved for years. I lived like a monk. I didn’t have vacations. I didn’t go out. I didn’t buy nice things. I earned that place. I’m not selling it because Clara made reckless choices.”
“She’s your sister,” my father said, voice hard.
“She’s a grown woman,” I replied. “She made her own choices.”
Clara shot up from the couch. “You’re supposed to help me,” she cried. “You’re supposed to care what happens to me.”
“Where was that loyalty five years ago?” I asked. “When all of you told me to get lost?”
My mother’s face twisted. “That was different.”