My name is Bella, and I never thought I’d be standing on my parents’ front porch again. The last time I’d properly spoken to them was three years ago, at my grandmother’s funeral. Before that, it was the terrible day when I was eighteen, when they chose my sister, Lisa, over me.
I can still feel the ghost of tears on my face as they told me they were giving my college fund to Lisa for her wedding. “But it’s my education,” I’d screamed. “Your sister needs a proper wedding,” my mother had said, her voice firm.
“You can take out student loans.”
I left that day and never really came back. My grandmother was the only one who stood by me, helping me pay for community college. I worked, got my degree, and built my own life.
I married, had my daughter, Emma, and divorced. Now, at 36, I was doing okay. The apartment I bought with my inheritance from Grandma brought in steady rental income, and between that and my part-time job, I could spend plenty of time with Emma.
But an urgent call from my mother had brought me back to this door. I rang the bell. “Bella, you came!” Mom’s enthusiasm was jarring.
She looked older, more worn. Dad stood behind her, attempting a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You said it was urgent,” I said, stepping inside.
They led me to the living room, the fancy furniture they’d bought for Lisa’s wedding now showing its age. Mom started to cry—not quiet tears, but deep, body-shaking sobs. “We’re going to lose the house,” Dad finally said.
There was always more with them. It was always about Lisa. “She asked us to take out a business loan for her husband, Tom,” Mom began.
“We used the house as collateral.”
“Let me guess,” I said, my voice flat. “Lisa’s not paying.”
“Tom’s business went bankrupt,” Dad explained, looking at the floor. “They’ve stopped making payments, and we… we can’t cover it.”
I started to laugh, a harsh, bitter sound.
“So you called me? The daughter you abandoned, whose education you gave away, to bail you out of another mess Lisa created?”
“We know you’re doing well,” Mom said quickly. “The rental income… we wouldn’t ask if we weren’t desperate.”
I stood there, looking at these two people who had chosen my sister over me at every turn.
“I’ll think about it,” I heard myself say, and I was as surprised as they were. “Why are you crying, Mommy?” Emma asked as soon as I picked her up. My nine-year-old daughter has always been too perceptive.
“I saw your grandparents today,” I said. Her eyes lit up. She’d only ever seen them in pictures.
That’s when I knew what I had to do. Maybe I was insane, but Emma deserved a chance to know her family. A week later, I found myself driving back, Emma bouncing excitedly beside me.
The reunion was strange. Mom cried again. Dad was awkward.
But Emma broke the ice, running up to hug them both. For a moment, I saw genuine joy in their eyes. That evening, I made my decision.
“I’ll help with the loan payments,” I told my mother over the phone. “I’m moving in with Emma. The rental income from my apartment will go toward the loan.
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