I’ve thought about this a lot, and I’ve decided that I need to secure my own future first. I have student loans to pay off, retirement to plan for, and student loans, my father interrupted incredulously. You’re going to be a millionaire.
Who cares about student loans? I do, I replied firmly. I’ve worked hard to stay afloat with those payments for years, and the money isn’t as much as you think after taxes, but still plenty to help your sister, my mother insisted. Brooke leaned forward.
Mac, I only need about $80,000 to clear everything and have a proper marketing budget. That’s nothing compared to what you’re getting. $80,000 is not nothing, I countered.
And what happens when that runs out? Will you need another infusion of cash in six months? That won’t happen, Brooke insisted, though her eyes slid away from mine. This is different. I just need a proper chance, like the proper chance you had with graphic design, or interior decorating, or becoming a yoga instructor.
I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice. Each time, mom and dad supported you financially, and each time, you abandoned it when it got difficult. That’s enough, my father said sharply.
Your sister is trying to build something of her own. All she needs is adequate capital, which you now have in abundance. This is about family responsibility, Mackenzie.
Where was this family responsibility when I was working two jobs to pay for college? I asked, years of resentment finally spilling over. Where was it when I needed help with the down payment for a car so I could get to work? You’ve always had different standards for Brooke and me. That’s not true, my mother protested weakly.
It is true, and we all know it, I said, my voice trembling slightly. For once in my life, something good has happened to me, and I deserve to enjoy it without guilt or manipulation. The argument continued for over an hour, growing increasingly heated.
My parents cycled through guilt, anger, and even attempts at negotiation. What about $40,000 instead? Brooke alternated between playing the victim and making veiled accusations about my character. Finally, emotionally exhausted, I asked them to leave.
I’ve made my decision. I won’t be bullied or manipulated into changing my mind. My father’s face hardened.
If this is your attitude, don’t expect to remain part of this family. The words hit like a physical blow, but I stood my ground. If your acceptance is conditional on me giving away my financial security, then maybe that’s for the best.
After they left, I collapsed onto my couch, emotionally drained but oddly relieved. I had finally stood up for myself after decades of accepting second-place status in my own family, but I knew this wasn’t over, not by a long shot. I called Rachel and asked if I could stay at her place for a few days.
I need some space for my family, and I don’t trust them not to show up again. Of course, she said immediately, pack a bag and come over. Wine will be waiting.
As I packed enough clothes for a few days, I had no idea how prophetic my distrust would prove to be. I spent three relatively peaceful days at Rachel’s apartment, going to work as usual but returning to her place rather than my own. My family continued their campaign of calls and texts, but I responded minimally, usually with simple variations of, my decision is final.
On the fourth day, I realized I needed to retrieve some work documents I’d left at my apartment. Rachel offered to go with me, but she had an important meeting she couldn’t miss. I’ll be fine, I assured her.
I’ll grab what I need and be out in 10 minutes. I chose my lunch break, thinking my family would be at work or otherwise occupied. As I approached my apartment door, everything seemed normal.
I unlocked it and stepped inside, immediately sensing something was wrong. There were voices coming from my living room. I froze, heart pounding, before recognizing my parents’ voices.
They were in my apartment. For a moment, I considered backing out quietly and calling the police. But anger overrode caution, and I strode into the living room.
What are you doing in my apartment? I demanded. My mother and father were standing by my coffee table. Between them, in a small metal trash can I recognized from my own kitchen, flames were rising from what looked like paper.
With a jolt of horror, I realized what was happening. My mother was burning what appeared to be my lottery check. My father turned to me, his expression cold and determined.
If you won’t share, you won’t get a penny. I rushed forward, but the damage was already done. The paper was mostly ash now, flames consuming what little remained.
My mother stepped back, a look of grim satisfaction on her face. Now we can discuss a fair arrangement, she said, since you’ll need to reapply for the prize. I stared at them in shock, my mind racing to process what had just happened.
How had they gotten in? What exactly had they burned? And most importantly, did they really think this would work? How did you get into my apartment? I managed to ask, my voice surprisingly steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. We still had the spare key you gave us last year when you had the flu, my father replied matter-of-factly. You never asked for it back.