He hesitated too long. Then shrugged. “Next year, maybe. 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 steady one, the one who “didn’t need it.”
I cut them off. Blocked their numbers. Told my parents I wouldn’t attend gatherings if they were there. Losing my sister hurt far more than losing the money, but betrayal has a weight that crushes everything beneath it.
Life kept going. 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 and told me something I should’ve known sooner: Rick had borrowed money from others — my aunt, my uncle, his own parents — always with the same pattern. None of it ever repaid. This wasn’t misfortune. This was a habit.
I tried to move on. Honestly, I did.
