The next morning, I wired over $25,000 — nearly everything I’d saved from selling my business.
We drafted a simple agreement over coffee at their table, signed it, and I tried to trust that the family would keep their word.
For the first half of the year, I stayed quiet, trying not to become the person who hounds their own sister for money.
But the months turned into a year, then two. When I began to gently ask about repayment, they offered vague excuses.
“It’s been a bad quarter,” Rick would say.
“Tuition for the kids hit us hard,” Lisa would chime in.
Meanwhile, I saw social media posts showing weekend trips, designer bags, and fancy brunches. Rick drove home one day with a brand-new SUV.
I started taking screenshots of these things — not out of revenge, but to protect myself.
By the third Thanksgiving, I’d had enough. Sitting at Lisa’s beautifully catered feast with expensive wine and magazine-perfect décor, I finally spoke up when the kids had stepped out.
“Hey,” I began, steadying my voice. “We need to talk about the money. It’s been three years.”
Lisa’s polite mask shattered. “You’re really bringing this up over dinner?”
Rick leaned back with a smirk. “That paper you had us sign? It wouldn’t hold up in court.”
“I’m not talking about court,” I replied. “I’m talking about integrity.”
Lisa’s fork clattered on her plate. “You said you’d be fine without it, Ivy!”
“That doesn’t mean it was a gift,” I reminded her.
“You’re acting like we stole from you!” Lisa shouted.
I left before dessert.
That night, I sat in my car, stunned by the cold realization that my sister had betrayed me, that she had no intention of paying me back.
The next week, I took our agreement to a lawyer. He shook his head. “It’s too informal,” he said gently.
I could have tried to sue, but I was done chasing them. So I did the only thing left — I cut ties.
I deleted their numbers, muted their accounts, and explained to my parents that I needed distance. They didn’t argue. Their silence told me they’d seen this coming, too.
