The phone rang, a tinny, anxious sound. It was her. My mom. Again. I knew what she wanted before I even answered. She’d been calling more frequently lately, her voice thinner, more strained with each passing week. My stomach clenched. I took a deep breath, letting it ring twice more, trying to steel myself.
“Hello?” My voice was tight, betraying the exhaustion I felt right down to my bones.
“Sweetheart, I… I need to ask you something,” she began, her usual cheerful facade already cracking. “The car needs major repairs. And rent is due. I just don’t know what to do.”
A little girl walking up a staircase | Source: Midjourney
My eyes drifted around my small apartment, the one I’d worked two jobs to afford. The one where I meticulously budgeted every penny, bought generics, and skipped vacations. This isn’t fair. The thought burned, hot and acrid, in my throat.
I remembered the conversation from three years ago. The one where she tearfully admitted her retirement fund was gone. Not dwindled, not invested poorly, but gone. Emptied. Because of my sister. My older sister. The one who had always been Mom’s favorite, her special little bird, too delicate for the harsh realities of life.
My sister, who bounced from one “brilliant business idea” to the next. The artisan candle company that never sold a single wick. The organic dog food startup that ended with a mountain of rotting kibble. The “wellness retreat” that folded before it even opened. Each failure, each new whim, came with an urgent plea for seed money. And Mom, without fail, had opened her purse. Again. And again. And again.
