Chapter 2

"Piper, I'm really tight this month. My car payment is $550. Let me get through this stretch first, okay?"

I read that text five times.

I hadn't even demanded the money. I had hesitated for three days, drafting the text all night before finally sending: "Hey, about Dad's surgery bill... is there any way you could help cover a portion of it soon?"

*Help cover. A portion. Soon.*

I regretted sending it the moment I hit send. A twelve-thousand-dollar medical bill that should have been split equally between two siblings, and I sounded like a beggar asking for spare change.

And he took four hours to reply.

Four hours. What was he doing? Posting on Instagram, taking his kid to the park, picking out car air fresheners? Anything.

Anything but replying to his sister.

I stared at that "okay?" at the end of his text.

A casual, dismissive word. Like flicking dust off a table. Six thousand dollars—even if we split it half and half—brushed away with a simple "okay?".

Why don't you try paying a credit card bill with an "okay?"

I didn't push. I typed: "Leo, you can afford a $550 car payment, but you can't pay a single dime for Dad's surgery?"

Then I deleted it.

Letter by letter.

Instead, I sent: "Got it."

Then, I took a screenshot. The text of him saying "let me get through this stretch" and my "Got it."

That was screenshot number two.

The first was the credit card debt. The second was my brother's empty promise.

I saved it to the "2024" folder.

I didn't know why I was keeping them. Maybe my survival instinct was kicking in before my brain did. My hands were keeping receipts.

The days dragged on.

October. My first credit card payment.

On the 9th, the automatic payment cleared: $330. The buzz of my phone woke me up. I checked my account. My balance went from $1,800 to $1,470.

I had to survive twenty-one more days.

I stopped buying coffee. I stopped eating out.

Breakfast became plain oatmeal. A giant tub of generic oats cost five dollars.

For lunch, I ate the cheapest meal at the office cafeteria—just a side of plain white rice and steamed veggies.

Dinner was instant ramen.

I remembered Leo saying back in college: "Ramen is the joy of the broke."

Now that he drove an SUV, he probably forgot the taste of MSG packet broth.

I hadn't. A pack of generic ramen was fifty cents. I skipped the egg. Fifty cents saved was fifty cents closer to freedom.

Mid-October, Chloe posted on Instagram.

She signed Tommy up for toddler equestrian lessons. $150 a session. $600 for a package.

The picture showed Tommy on a pony, wearing a little helmet, grinning.

Chloe captioned it: "The sensory therapist recommended equestrian play for cognitive development. Pricey, but totally worth it!"

Six hundred dollars.

That was my entire monthly food budget.

My nephew rode horses, while I starved on plain oatmeal and dry toast.

My mom commented with a series of clapping emojis.

I scrolled past. No like.

In the past, I liked everything. Leo's new car, Chloe's baby photos, even the fake news articles Mom shared.

Not anymore.

Liking them was fake. Loving myself was real.

A few days later, Dad called.

"Piper, how have you been? Are you busy this weekend? Why don't you come over for dinner?"

His voice sounded weaker, older, like it was traveling through a thick fog.

"I'll have to see, Dad."

"Sure, if you're free, come over. I'll make your favorite pot roast."

After hanging up, I looked at the calendar.

Going home meant a two-hour bus ride. And once I got there? Leo's SUV would be parked in the driveway. Chloe would be teaching Tommy to say "Hi, Aunt Piper." Mom would be bossing me around in the kitchen to chop veggies and wash dishes.

And after dinner...

"You'll have to call an Uber. There's no room left."

That car. The one I had practically paid the down payment for. It parked itself in my head more clearly than it ever did in the driveway.

I didn't go.

I texted Dad: "Working overtime this weekend, Dad. Next time."

He replied: "Okay."

Then added: "Make sure you eat well. Don't starve yourself to save money."

*Don't starve yourself.*

I stared at those words, then put my phone face down.

I made instant ramen. No egg.

As I watched the oil droplets float in the broth, I recalled the fourth night of Dad's hospitalization. I was eating a dry sandwich on a hard plastic chair in the hallway.

Leo showed up for thirty minutes, dropped off a carton of milk, and left.

Chloe came once. She stood at the door for ten minutes and said she had to rush back because the baby was crying.

I stayed for seven days.

I took seven days off work. I lost my attendance bonus, and my pay was docked. It cost me nearly a thousand dollars in lost wages.

The money I sacrificed for that surgery was far more than just the four thousand on my credit card.

But the only thing my mother remembered was: "You're single, you don't have any responsibilities."

My ramen grew cold. I poured the broth down the sink.

The greasy red liquid swirled around the drain and vanished.

Just like my savings.