My younger sister, Brianna, exhaled sharply like I was the problem. “I already told my landlord you’d wire it today. Don’t make me look stupid.”
That nearly made me laugh.
Nearly.
Brianna was twenty-nine, striking, dramatic, and always one poor decision away from a crisis. There was always some urgent reason she needed money. First it was a car payment, then a “temporary” medical bill that turned out to be cosmetic dental work, then a deposit, then credit cards, then a “business idea” involving a mobile spray-tan service she ran for four months before deciding she hated dealing with customers. My parents never stopped bailing her out. They just started needing my money to do it.
Before I could respond, another text appeared.
From my father.
If you don’t help, don’t bother coming to Thanksgiving.
That was in three days.
I looked at the message and felt something inside me go cold and still.
Because it wasn’t just pressure anymore. It was coercion disguised as family loyalty. Pay your sister’s rent or lose your seat at the table. Transfer the money or be labeled the selfish daughter who refused “one small favor.”