He told it all in short, shaky sentences. Rick’s construction business was going bust. Debt was piling up. The mortgage company was taking over. They’d already tried his parents, but it still wasn’t enough. They had no other options.
“How much?” I asked. That had always been my role in the family: the one who fixed things.
He whispered it as if admitting a sin. “Twenty-five thousand.”
Almost half my savings. Half my newfound freedom. But this was my sister: the girl who hid in my bed during thunderstorms, the woman who supported me through my divorce. Saying no seemed unthinkable. So I agreed.
Rick came over later that day to sign a basic loan agreement I’d printed online. He had a blank, embarrassed expression. “You’re saving us. I won’t forget it.”
I believed him. Because back then I still believed that words mattered.
Their account received the money the next morning. Lisa called me, crying with relief, thanking me over and over again. For a while, I convinced myself I’d done the right thing. That this was what family did.
Then came silence.
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