Mom demanded $2,000 as though collecting a debt I’d never agreed to pay. When I refused, she pointed toward the front door and declared, “Then get out—and don’t come back when you finally remember what family means.”
The money was for my half-sister, Kayla.
Again.
“She needs it for rent,” Mom said.
“Last month it was her car.”
“She’s struggling.”
“She bought a designer bag three days ago.”
Mom’s expression hardened. “Don’t be selfish, Emma. You only think about yourself. This is your family.”
Kayla sat across the kitchen island, scrolling through her phone with the very handbag I’d mentioned beside her.
She smiled without looking up.
“I didn’t ask her to be difficult,” she said.
I stared.
