I caught my dad on my security camera planning to move my brother into my house while I was on a trip, and when my mom said, “Once everything is here, she will not make a scene. She will just accept it,” I set a trap for them.

Bad management.

Difficult coworkers.

The economy.

Bad timing.

By March 2024, Kyle was unemployed again and three months behind on rent. His girlfriend, Brittany, was twenty-eight and also out of work. They were living in an apartment they could not afford, and the landlord had started the process of getting them out.

Three weeks before my trip, my mother called me with a suggestion.

“Myra, honey, I’ve been thinking,” she said. “You have all that space in your house, and Kyle just needs a few months to get back on his feet. Wouldn’t it be nice to help your brother?”

I said no.

Politely.

Firmly.

There was a pause on the line, the kind my mother used when she wanted me to fill it with guilt.

I did not.

She sighed.

“I just thought family helped each other.”

Then she hung up without saying goodbye.

I assumed that was the end of it.