I worked hard for everything I had.
Not the gym selfies or fancy quotes kind. Work that exhausts you. Late nights that become mornings, missing meals to buy design software, and hand-washing clothes because laundromats are too expensive.
Yes, I hustled hard.
My freelance design career consumed all my 20s earnings. Band posters, little jobs, affordable logos. Used a pawn shop tablet that was battered up. The screen was terrible and barely worked. Sometimes I got compensated. Sometimes I didn’t.
But I persisted.
After landing a significant contract, I bought a 1TB iPad Pro. It cost almost $2,000. Others saw it as a device. It was my world—office, meetings, deadlines. Tablet improved my job prospects.
Those employment helped me relocate from a tiny flat to a bigger one. It restarted me.
Something inside me broke when I saw it smashed on my parents’ living room floor.
Our family spent a few days together over the holidays before the new year. I left my iPad charging in Dad’s study out of the way after staying up late finishing a project.
I dragged myself into the living room the next morning, half-asleep and dying for coffee, then halted.
It existed. Facedown on hardwood. The screen had spiderweb-like cracks and no protection. Like ripped gift wrap, its case was discarded.
Amara, my sister, was drinking from a Best Mom Ever mug I gave Mom two Christmases ago on the couch.
“Amara, what happened?” I questioned, pointing at the broken iPad.
She answered, “Oh, yeah,” scarcely glancing up. The kids broke it. Chill, Torin. You can use Dad’s old Samsung. OK for YouTube. You’ll understand.”
I blinked. NO, sorry. Not guilty. Nothing.
“How did they get it?” I requested. “It wasn’t at their reach.”
“I gave it to them,” she shrugged. “They wanted cartoons. Don’t fuss. You can buy another. Your employment is good.”
“That was a $2,000 work tool, Amara,” I stated gently, hoping she understood.
“You’re fine, Torin. Why act like the world is ending?
I remained silent. My jaw suffered from tightness.
Nova and Quill flipped TV channels on the floor. No one looked at me or said hi. Like their mother.
Checked the study. The charger was hanging on the desk and the door was open.
“You took something that wasn’t yours,” I told her.
She said, “They were throwing a fit. “I needed a break. I wanted alone time to watch my show. You were asleep, not using it.”
Staring, I was stunned. You let your kids play with something pricey that wasn’t theirs, and they broke it!
“Calm down,” she said loudly. Their uncle, you. Why not share? What’s wrong?
My hands shook. I left silently, locked myself in the bathroom, and inhaled.
Always reckless, Amara has felt owed everything. She begs for money “for groceries” and disappears. She complained about rent over the phone, so I mailed her money that day.
Champagne, robes, and sunsets from a luxury resort were uploaded a week later. No mention of me.
Always made her issues mine. Rent. Her automobile. Her kids. And I always helped.
I was the good brother. He mended things. The one who smiled and said, It’s okay—even when it wasn’t.
This time, it was wrong.
Every time I let it go, I showed her she could get away with it. I couldn’t continue.
Not after she toyed with my most crucial tool. Not after laughing at its break.
This time, no.
She was alone in the living room after lunch as the kids napped and football played. She ate popcorn while on her phone.
I sat across from her and she didn’t look up.
You owe me $2,200,” I said calmly but seriously. I needed her to know I wasn’t joking.
She laughed like a joke.
“Torin, come on,” she laughed. “Just a tablet. Get another.”
I said, “I’m not joking,” sweating hands.
“Oh, please,” she murmured, dropping her phone. “You’re fighting me over this? You own sister?
It’s not about the tablet. It’s about denying responsibility.”
Rolling her eyes, she muttered, “Forget it.”
I leaned forward and said, “No.” “You and Gideon are parents. Deal with it. Ask your ex for aid. No more mending your mess.”
She looked horrified, like I offended her.
“You’re terrible, Torin. A family should aid each other. You should consider my kids!
I persisted.
“Amara, family doesn’t mean pretending you’re broke when you bought a new SUV. You act strangely, not family.”
That hit her. She opened her mouth but said nothing. She stood and went away, slamming the patio door.
That night, I left. Hugged Mom. Thanks Dad. Goodbye kids. I didn’t address Amara.
I filed in small claims court the next morning.
Amara called yelling two days later.
How could Torin do this? She shouted.
“Hey, Amara,” I said calmly.
“You sue me?! Over kids? Your nieces and nephew?
“No, Amara,” I said. ‘I’m suing someone who won’t take responsibility.”
I hung up.
Mom reported Amara cried in the kitchen when I left when we had coffee a few days later. Said I embarrassed, treated her like a stranger, and punished her. Even Mom seemed tired when she said it—like she finally recognized what I’d seen for years.
I didn’t explain. It wasn’t necessary.
As usual, Dad remained out.
Amara wasn’t likely to pay. I expected to drag this out for months while I survived.
A week later, my phone rang with a $2,200 deposit.
All at once. It seemed like she always had the money.
She thought, as usual, I wouldn’t charge her.
I said I’d leave it go. Spend the money on a new iPad and move on.
But her words lingered.
Family should forgive.”
They weighed my chest like a coat I couldn’t remove. I kept wondering—had I overstepped? Was I bad?
Perhaps I should have let go.
But then I remembered my times.
I remember giving her half my rent when I was 23 and saw her with a new phone cover and a cocktail by the pool days later.
Or when I co-signed a new auto loan after she crashed. She promised to repay me.
She didn’t.
On Nova’s birthday, Amara forgot to plan. Decorations, food, and a bouncy castle were rented. To avoid disappointing Nova, told everyone it was her idea.
Amara didn’t say thanks. Not even she mentioned it.
She expected backup from me. The silent aid. The one who prevented chaos.
People like Amara only learn when it costs them severely.
The new iPad came two days later. I cautiously opened it, put on the case, and loaded apps. It wasn’t enjoyable.
A sense of respect. Line drawn. Clear stand: Enough.
Just once, I didn’t carry her error. I let her admit it.
She stopped talking to me. It felt peaceful.
A month later, she sent a photo.
Nova and Quill with crayons and coloring books at the table. No screens. Today, no screens. Just crayons.
Message below:
Torin, I didn’t think you’d follow through. I wanted to guilt you again. Maybe you were right. Maybe I needed that.”
Non-apology. Maybe a new start?
I didn’t reply.
I didn’t block her either.
Occasionally, the only way to gain appreciation for your work is…
When they break it, you present the bill.
While eating carrot cake.