Part One
At dinner, my sister asked me to pay for her car.
Not one installment.
Every single one of them.
Every single one of them.
“Twenty-five hundred a month,” Dana said, sliding the loan statement across the table toward me as casually as if she were passing the bread basket. “Just until I get back on my feet.”
Her husband, Trent, added, “And don’t make this weird. Refuse, and you’re out of the family.”
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.
Nobody around that table looked surprised. Not Mom. Not Dad. Not my aunt, who constantly claimed she hated conflict more than anything in the world. Not my brother, who’d already gone back to his phone like my answer had been decided before I’d even sat down.
