My older brother, Jason, sat at the table with my parents, sipping beer from one of Dad’s glass mugs like they were celebrating something. My mother noticed me first and smiled in a way that made my stomach knot.
“Oh, you’re home,” she said lightly.
“Why is my suitcase by the door?”
Jason leaned back in his chair, relaxed and smug, already savoring a win. “Your work is finished,” he said. “We got what we wanted. Don’t look back at us now.”
I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
Dad actually chuckled. “Don’t act confused.”
Then Jason pulled my ATM card from his pocket and flicked it onto the table.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
“You stole my card?”
“Borrowed,” he said. “And emptied the account.”
I lunged for it, but he moved faster, pressing it beneath his palm. “Relax. It’s family money anyway.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Mom let out a soft laugh, like I was a child making a scene. “It was a smart decision. You’ve been hoarding money while living under this roof.”
The room seemed to turn cold. “How much did you take?”
Jason shrugged lazily. “Everything.”
With shaking hands, I grabbed my phone, opened my banking app, and felt the blood drain from my face. Savings: $0.43. Checking: $12.11. The transaction history showed withdrawal after withdrawal from two ATMs across town. Then a wire transfer. He had drained nearly $38,000.
“That was my money for graduate school,” I whispered.
Jason stood up. He was taller than me, broader, and he knew it. “Not anymore.”
“Give it back.”
“No.”
