My sister's kids sent me a Christmas wish list for a $3,200 drone, a PS6, two iPhones, and cash for future tattoos, and when she called me cheap because I was the rich uncle, I smiled and arrived on Christmas morning with 12 giant boxes and a sealed envelope.

The family dinner at my parents' house that evening was an exercise in strategic avoidance. The roast beef was perfectly cooked, the mashed potatoes were buttery, and the topic of Melissa was a radioactive zone that no one dared to step into for the first forty-five minutes.

Dad sat at the head of the table, carving the meat with meticulous precision. Mom kept moving back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, her frantic energy a clear sign that she was bursting at the seams.

"So, Andrew," Mom started, her voice a little too high, a little too cheerful. "How are things at the clinic? Are you still on the trauma rotation for New Year's Eve?"

"Yeah, Mom. It's the busiest night of the year for us. Lots of fireworks accidents and drunk driving. Standard procedure," I said, cutting a piece of meat.

Dad laid the carving knife down with a dull thud against the wooden board. He looked across the table at me, his eyes steady. "Andrew. Let's not do this. Let's talk about this morning."

Mom stopped in her tracks, holding a gravy boat like a weapon of defense. "Arthur, please. Not at the table."

"No, Helen, we have to," Dad said, his voice firm. "We've been putting this off for years because it was easier to let Andrew handle it than to face the fact that our daughter has zero financial sense. But what happened today... Andrew, you took a sledgehammer to her life."

"I took a sledgehammer to her crutch, Dad," I corrected him, setting my fork down. "There's a difference. If I didn't do it now, when would it end? When Tyler goes to college and expects me to pay a forty-thousand-dollar annual tuition? When Melissa decides she wants a vacation home because she's 'stressed'?"

"She called me crying for three hours after you left," Mom said, her eyes welling with tears. "She said she felt sub-human. She said you humiliated her in front of her children. Tyler won't even leave his room, and Chloe keeps asking if they're going to be homeless."

"They aren't going to be homeless, and Melissa knows that," I replied, my voice hardening. "She's using the kids as human shields to make you feel guilty so you'll pressure me into backing down. It's her standard playbook. And it works because you two let it work."

Dad leaned back, rubbing his temples. "She asked us for money, Andrew. To cover the security deposit on a new place. She wants us to dip into our retirement fund."

My heart sank, but it didn't surprise me. Melissa was a parasite that would simply find a new host once the old one developed an immunity. "And what did you say, Dad?"

Dad looked at Mom, then back at me. "I told her no."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "Thank you."

"But your mother wanted to say yes," Dad added honestly. "We don't have that kind of money to throw away, Andrew. Our retirement is modest. If we start funding her lifestyle, we'll be the ones living in a studio apartment by the time I'm eighty."

"Exactly," I said. "Melissa doesn't understand the value of a dollar because she has never had to suffer the consequences of losing one. Every time she fell, someone caught her. First her ex-husband, then you guys, then me. It’s time she hits the ground. Not to hurt her, but so she realizes the ground is solid and she has to stand on it."

Mom sat down, finally setting the gravy boat on the table. She looked defeated. "She's my baby, Andrew. When she cries, it feels like my fault."

"It's not your fault, Mom. But continuing to enable her will be your fault. If you give her even one dollar, you invalidate everything I did this morning, and you ensure she stays dependent on us until the day we die."

The phone on the kitchen counter began to buzz. The ringtone was a specific, frantic chirp that we all recognized. It was Melissa's designated tone.

Nobody moved. The phone buzzed against the granite countertop, its vibration echoing through the silent dining room. Five times. Six times. Then it went to voicemail.

Two seconds later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. A text message from Melissa.

I looked at the text, felt the familiar prickle of guilt try to worm its way into my chest, and then I did something I should have done three years ago. I swiped left and hit Block.