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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.”
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.
Then Lisa called.
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