It all felt so hopeful. My younger sister, just eighteen, had been through hell. A serious illness, months of recovery, a fragility that broke my heart. When she finally moved in with us, a few months ago, I felt a huge wave of relief. This was it. A fresh start. She was safe with me. Our home, a quiet refuge after everything she’d endured. She started getting out, finding her feet again. It was beautiful to watch. Then, imperceptibly at first, things shifted. She stopped talking about going out with friends. Her phone, once buzzing, lay silent. Her new clothes, barely worn. She didn’t ask for money, which was strange, because my parents, bless them, sent a generous amount each week specifically for her. For her expenses. To help her rebuild her life. I assumed she was just being careful, maybe saving up. A responsible kid.
But the quiet grew heavier. One evening, she just sat on the couch, staring into space. Her eyes were dull. I couldn’t ignore it anymore. “Hey,” I started, trying to sound casual. “Everything okay? You seem… quiet lately.”
She flinched. Like a startled deer. Her lower lip began to tremble. My stomach dropped. “It’s nothing,” she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper.
“It’s not nothing,” I insisted, my voice softer now, moving closer. “Tell me. What’s going on?”
And then, she broke. The dam burst. Tears streamed down her face, racking her small frame with sobs. She buried her face in her hands, her words muffled, almost incomprehensible. I had to lean in, straining to hear.
“She… she takes it,” she choked out, looking up at me, eyes red-rimmed and full of shame. “Every week. As soon as it comes in. She says… she says, ‘THIS ISN’T A CHARITY. HAND OVER THE MONEY YOUR PARENTS SEND.'”
My blood ran cold. My breath caught in my throat. My wife. My incredible, loving wife, who had been nothing but outwardly supportive of my sister moving in. She’d been doing this?
“How much?” I managed to ask, my voice rough.
“Two hundred dollars,” she whispered. “Every single week.”
TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS. Every week. My sister, recovering from a debilitating illness, barely out of childhood, being extorted in my own home. My mind reeled. But then, the real gut punch landed, a sickening realization that made my vision swim. My parents already sent me money to cover her expenses. A significant amount. They entrusted me to care for her, to manage her finances, to ensure she had everything she needed.
So where was that money going? And why was my wife taking more from my vulnerable sister?
I stood there, frozen, the world tilting on its axis. My rage, a hot, uncontrollable wave, threatened to drown me. I found my wife in the kitchen, humming as she prepared dinner, completely oblivious to the earthquake that had just erupted.
“What have you been doing to my sister?” My voice was low, dangerous.
She turned, a sweet smile on her face that instantly vanished when she saw my expression. “What are you talking about?”
“The money. The $200 a week you’ve been taking from her, telling her this isn’t a charity.”
Her face went white. She stammered, tried to deny it, then justified it. “She has to contribute! It’s not fair for us to cover everything!”
“IT’S NOT FAIR?! My parents send me enough money to cover all her expenses! That money was supposed to be hers! For her life!” I was yelling now, my voice raw with betrayal. “WHERE IS IT? WHERE IS THAT MONEY GOING?”
She finally broke, her eyes filling with tears. “I needed it! I needed it for something important, something I couldn’t tell you about!” She looked desperate, cornered. “It’s not what you think. It’s not for me, not for anything bad!”
My anger warred with a desperate, crushing fear. What could be so important? A secret debt? An emergency? I forced myself to calm down, to push past the fury. “Tell me. Now. Where is it?”
She took a shaky breath, avoiding my eyes. “I… I needed a deposit.”
“A deposit for what?” I demanded, my heart pounding in my chest. Please, let it be something fixable. Something we can get through.
She finally looked at me, her gaze desolate, but strangely resolute. “For the retainer,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “And a down payment. For my own apartment. I’m leaving you. I’ve been saving up to file for divorce.”
