He hesitated too long. Then he shrugged. “Maybe next year. Monthly payments or something.”
I stared at him. “I gave you half my savings to keep your house. You’re buying furniture and taking vacations. Don’t pretend you can’t pay me back.”
He stiffened. “You’re fine, Ivy. You can afford to wait.”
And in that moment I finally understood: in their minds, it had never been a loan. It was a gift, because I was the reliable one, the constant one, the one who “didn’t need it.”
I cut them off. I blocked their numbers. I told my parents I wouldn’t attend the meetings if they were there. Losing my sister was much more painful than losing the money, but the betrayal has a weight that crushes everything.
Life went on. My business expanded. My workshops became something bigger: a community for women rebuilding their lives. I loved that work. It felt real.
Then my cousin called me and told me something I should have known before: Rick had borrowed money from others—my aunt, my uncle, his parents—in the same way over and over again. None of that money was ever repaid. It wasn’t bad luck. It was a habit.
I tried to move on. Honestly, I succeeded.
Then Lisa called.
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