I started covering part of his rent—$800 a month.
Thirty-six months later, I had sent him $28,800 just for rent. That didn’t include the car repair, credit card debt, gas, dinners, or the weekends I spent cleaning up another mess.
Connor was still the golden child.
I was still the reliable one who supposedly “didn’t need anything.”
Then came the family dinner that finally broke something in me.
We were eating roast chicken at my parents’ house when Connor leaned back, sipped his wine, and looked at me with that smug grin he wore like cologne.
“Still single, huh?” he said. “Must be lonely being a failure.”
My parents laughed softly.
I remember setting my fork down. Not slamming it. Not raising my voice.
Then I looked him in the eye.
“Funny coming from a guy whose rent I’ve paid for three years. Not anymore, by the way.”
