Chapter 1

My dad was hospitalized. His surgery cost twelve thousand dollars. I only had eight thousand in my savings.

I called Leo. He said he just bought a new car and cash was tight. I called Chloe. She said Tommy's preschool was three thousand a year.

Mom dragged me into the corner of the hospital hallway, her voice hushed.

"Your brother is under so much pressure. You're single, you don't have any responsibilities. Just put it on your card first."

So, I did. Twelve thousand dollars. I maxed out my credit cards for the remaining four thousand.

On discharge day, Leo drove his shiny new SUV to pick Dad up. Chloe and Tommy were in the back. Mom took the front passenger seat.

Mom rolled down the window and said, "Piper, you'll have to grab an Uber. There's no room left."

I stood at the hospital entrance, watching the car—the one I had essentially paid the down payment for—drive away.

Six months later, Dad went for a follow-up. Mom called again.

"Leo's switching jobs. Can you—"

I said, "Mom, I haven't even paid off my credit card debt yet."

There was a silence on the other end for about ten seconds.

Then she said, "Piper, what is wrong with you? Why are you being so selfish?"

I hung up. I didn't cry. At thirty years old, my tears had finally learned how to stay inside.

"Current amount due: $4,127.63. Payment date: the 9th of every month."

My phone screen lit up. The credit card notification pinged twice in my cramped rental apartment.

I sat on the floor, my back leaning against the edge of the bed, my phone resting on my knees.

The numbers on the screen were a stark, blinding white—even more painful than my mother's words: "Why are you being so selfish?"

I did the math.

My monthly paycheck was $3,500. Rent was $1,200. Food and basics had to be kept under $500. The minimum credit card payment was around $400.

But to pay off the $4,000 completely? I'd need to pay $330 a month for twelve months.

$3,500 minus $1,200 rent, minus $500 basics, minus $330 card payment...

That left me with almost nothing if unexpected expenses came up. I had to tighten my belt even harder.

I put my phone down. The screen went dark, reflecting my face. My cheekbones were sharper than they were six months ago, my eyes sunken. At thirty, I looked thirty-five.

I didn't recognize myself. And I didn't care to.

The phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't a bank alert. It was Snapchat.

Leo had posted a story.

A picture of his new car. A white SUV parked outside the dealership. Caption: "Blessed ❤️"

The first comment was from Mom: "So proud of you!"

I scrolled down.

Chloe had reposted the same photo with her own caption: "Hubby's first brand-new car. The future is bright!"

Mom commented again: "Love you guys, build a beautiful life."

I scrolled through my own feed. My last post was from two months ago—working overtime past midnight, a takeout box on the corner of my messy desk.

Zero likes. Zero comments.

My mom hadn't even tapped on it.

My finger hovered over Leo's post. In the past, I would have liked it. I would have commented, "So happy for you!"

Now, I just closed the app.

I opened my credit card app, took a screenshot of the loan details. $4,000 borrowed. Interest rate: 14.6% APR.

I didn't know why I took the screenshot. My hands were moving faster than my brain.

When I saved it to my camera roll, I created a new folder and labeled it: "2024."

Four thousand dollars. On my phone, it was just a lightweight screenshot.

But on my chest, it was a heavy stone, gathering interest every single day.

From next door, the smell of cooking grease drifted through the cracks in my window. I sniffed, picked up a stale cracker from the desk, and took a bite.

Dinner.

As I chewed, my phone lit up again. Mom sent a 60-second voice note on Snapchat.

I didn't open it.

I knew exactly what she was going to say. I was selfish. I had changed. Why wouldn't I help my own brother?

Sixty seconds. She could package that guilt trip in a hundred different ways.

In the past, I would have replied instantly. I would have explained, apologized, and said, "Mom, I didn't mean it that way."

Now, I just swiped up and looked at our chat history. It was a monologue of me.

Screenshots of money transfers, tracking numbers for Dad's medicine, lists of follow-up care instructions.

Her longest reply was: "Got it."

Her shortest was: "K."

Yet, on the phone earlier, she had plenty of energy to call me "selfish."

The dry cracker caught in my throat. I reached for my cup, but it was empty.

On my way to get water, I passed the mirror.

I stopped for a second.

I used to be a healthy 125 pounds. Now, I was barely 105.

It wasn't a diet. It was the credit card diet.

I sat back down. My phone lit up a third time. A text from Leo: "Piper! Got the keys today. Let's go for a drive sometime!"

I stared at that exclamation mark for a long time.

*Go for a drive.*

The day Dad was discharged, your car had four seats. Four people sat in it. Mom in the front, your wife and kid in the back.

I stood at the hospital entrance, and your mother rolled down the window to tell me there was no room.

What drive? Where would I sit? In the trunk?

I didn't reply. I flipped my phone face down on the floor.

Pitch black.

Quiet.

The cheap light bulb in my room flickered. It was dying. Flickering, like a heart monitor.

When Dad was in the ICU, the monitor flickered just like that.

Steady. Rhythmic.

But when my mother grabbed my sleeve in that hospital hallway, my heart was anything but steady.

"Your brother is under so much pressure," she had whispered.

Right. He has pressure.

"You're single, you don't have any responsibilities."

Right. I have no responsibilities.

"Just put it on your card first."

Right.

*First.*

"First" is such a convenient word. "Put it on your card first," "Help him out first," "Let him have it first."

Eventually, "first" becomes "forever."

The floor was cold. The autumn wind seeped through the window, and I pulled my sleeves down.

My phone buzzed. A notification from the bank: "Friendly reminder: Your payment is due on the 9th. Please pay on time."

*Friendly.*

How touching.

I turned off the notifications and took one last look at Leo's post.

There was a new comment from one of Chloe's friends: "OMG, how much was it?"

Chloe replied instantly: "A little over $35,000. Leo saved up for so long!"

*Saved up for so long.*

I let out a cold laugh.

He saved up for his dream car. I was drowning in debt for our father's life-saving surgery.

In this family, everyone lived a smart, calculated life.

Except for me. I was the family ATM.

No, the family scapegoat.

The light bulb flickered one last time and died.

In the dark, I hugged my knees, cracker crumbs falling onto my jeans.

"Six hundred and seventy dollars," I whispered the amount I had left for the month.

That was the price of having "no responsibilities."