My sister invited us to her new lake house, beaming about the “family weekend we all need.” I offered to bring groceries, but she snapped, “You’ve freeloaded long enough.” I froze, heart pounding—I’d covered her mortgage three times last year. So that night, after everyone went to bed, I crept into the kitchen and quietly began…
…writing down everything I had paid for in the past year. Every dime.
Every emergency loan she “forgot” to pay back. I listed the check I sent when her furnace broke in February. The cash I handed over when her son needed braces and she “couldn’t cover the full cost.” I even noted the Airbnb rental I paid for during our mom’s birthday last summer, because she “couldn’t swing it that month.”
I didn’t plan to confront her.
Not right away. I just needed to see it all in one place. To remind myself I wasn’t crazy.
That the real freeloading hadn’t come from me. I left the paper folded in my bag, went back to my room, and lay awake most of the night. My chest was tight with that mix of hurt and rage I’d been swallowing for years.
And the worst part? Everyone else—my husband, our kids, even my parents—thought my sister Zahra was some kind of martyr. Single mom, works hard, always hosting.
They didn’t see how she weaponized generosity. The next morning, she was all smiles again. Making eggs like nothing happened.
“I’ve got paddleboards for later!” she chirped. “Let’s live a little!”
My mom clapped like a seal. “Oh, Zahra, you always think of everything!”
I bit my tongue so hard it bled.
After breakfast, we all split off into little groups. The kids ran down to the dock. My husband, Elias, helped Zahra’s oldest fix the loose deck board.
I walked up the gravel path to the guesthouse she’d converted from the old toolshed—mainly to get a minute alone. That’s when I saw something strange. A man I didn’t recognize walking around the back of the property, holding a clipboard.
He was dressed casual, but he had that real estate air about him. When he saw me, he smiled too wide. “You must be the sister,” he said.
“Sorry—do we know you?” I asked. “Just doing the pre-inspection,” he replied, then paused. “Wait, did she not tell you?”
“Tell me what?” I asked, but I already had that sinking feeling.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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