She spilled everything in short, shaky sentences. Rick’s construction business was falling apart. Debts piling up. The mortgage company closing in. They’d already tried his parents — still not enough. They were out of options.
“How much?” I asked. That had always been my role in the family — the one who fixed things.
She whispered it like admitting a sin. “Twenty-five thousand.”
Nearly half my savings. Half my newfound freedom. But this was my sister — the girl who hid in my bed during thunderstorms, the woman who held me through my divorce. Saying no felt unthinkable. So I agreed.
Rick came later that day to sign a basic loan contract I printed online. He looked hollow, embarrassed. “You’re saving us. I won’t forget this.”
I believed him. Because back then, I still believed that words mattered.
Their account received the money the next morning. Lisa called, crying with relief, thanking me again and again. For a while, I convinced myself I’d done the right thing. That this was what family did.
Then came the silence.
