But this time felt different. Not because of the amount. Because of the certainty. Brianna had already promised my money to someone else before even asking me. My father backed her with a holiday threat. Neither of them seemed to think I had a choice.
So I sent one message to the group thread.
Good luck.
Then I silenced my phone and drove home.
By the weekend, their landlord called me directly.
And by then, my sister’s furniture was already on the curb, my mother was sobbing, and my father was texting in all caps demanding to know what I had told him.
The answer was simple.
Nothing they were going to like.
I hadn’t contacted the landlord first.
That was the part my father kept getting wrong in his messages, as if I had orchestrated everything with one vindictive call from a grocery store parking lot.
I hadn’t.
My sister had done that herself.