After a year, I finally asked at Sunday dinner, keeping my voice even:
“So… how are things financially?”
Lisa gave me a bright smile. “Much better. Rick even got a bonus.”
Still nothing about the loan. Not even eye contact. That night, something hardened inside me. They weren’t forgetting. They weren’t struggling. They simply weren’t planning to repay me.
Months later, after excuse piled on excuse, I confronted Rick on their patio after Thanksgiving. The air was sharp and cold. My hands trembled — not from the temperature.
“It’s been two years,” I said. “What’s your repayment plan?”
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.”
He stiffened. “You’re fine, Ivy. You can afford to wait.”
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.
