Chapter 3 - The Fallout Begins
Thirty minutes after I hung up on Jared, my front door didn't just knock—it shook.
I walked down the small hallway of my apartment and looked through the peephole. Erica was standing outside, her face flushed red, her hair slightly disheveled, and her eyes wide with a mix of panic and fury.
I opened the door, but stood firmly in the doorway, blocking the entrance.
"Brian!" she burst out, her voice high and trembling. "What is wrong with you?! Jared just called me crying! He told me what you said!"
"He told you what I heard," I corrected her gently.
Erica blinked, her mouth opening and closing for a moment as she scrambled to regain her footing. "Brian... you... you completely misunderstood what was happening on the porch! Jared was just joking! He was stressed out about the wedding expenses and he was making light of the situation! It was just locker-room talk!"
"Locker-room talk about the brother who has been paying your mortgage for three years?" I asked.
"We were appreciative!" Erica insisted, tears beginning to pool in her eyes—the exact same theatrical tears she had used since she was six years old to get my mother to buy her ice cream or excuse her from chores. "We love you, Brian! You know how much we love you! How can you be so cruel over a foolish joke? We are going to lose our house!"
I looked at my younger sister—really looked at her.
For thirty-six months, I had pictured her as a struggling, desperate young woman working extra shifts at a dental clinic, barely keeping her head above water. But looking at her now, I noticed the brand-new designer leather handbag slung over her shoulder, the pristine manicured nails, the latest model iPhone in her hand, and the stylish, expensive boots on her feet.
She wasn't struggling. She was living beyond her means because she was using eight hundred dollars of my money every single month to subsidize her lifestyle.
"Erica," I said softly. "Where did you get that bag?"
She froze, instinctively pulling the handbag slightly behind her hip. "What? What does my bag have to do with anything?"
"It’s a Coach bag," I said. "It costs at least three hundred dollars. And your nails cost eighty bucks every two weeks. You aren't broke, Erica. You’re just spending my teaching salary on your luxury items while asking me to pay for your roof."
"That’s different!" she yelled, her tears instantly disappearing, replaced by sharp indignance. "I work hard! I deserve to have nice things occasionally! You don't have a family, Brian! You don't have a fiancée or kids or a big house to maintain! You live in a tiny one-bedroom apartment! What else are you using your money for?!"
The absolute, unbelievable entitlement of her words hit me like a splash of ice water.
"I’m using my money for my life," I said.
"You’re being selfish!" Erica screamed, stepping closer. "You promised me three years ago that you would help us! Family is supposed to sacrifice for family! Mom and Dad raised us to support each other!"
"I promised to help you for two or three months, Erica," I replied, keeping my voice utterly calm. "I gave you three years. I gave you almost thirty thousand dollars. I paid for your home while I drove a broken car and ate canned soup. I have fulfilled my duty as a brother ten times over."
"If our mortgage bounces tomorrow, I’m telling Mom and Dad!" she threatened, pointing a finger at my chest. "I’m telling everyone in the family what a cold, heartless monster you’re being!"
I gave her a small, sad smile.
May you like
"Go ahead," I said softly. "Tell them."
I stepped back and closed the door firmly in her face. I locked the deadbolt, pulled down the blinds, and walked back into my kitchen to finish eating my dinner.
