Apparently privacy became important only when Gage was embarrassed.
I muted the group chat.
At the pottery shop, the repo driver finally reached the BMW.
Gage stepped between him and the door.
“My sister handles this,” he said.
That sentence stopped me.
Not because it surprised me.
Because it finally made the arrangement clear.
My sister handles this.
For eight years, that had been the hidden family structure.
Gage wanted something, I handled it.
My parents needed money, I handled it.
A bill was late, I handled it.
A payment was missed, I handled it.
Someone made a bad decision, I absorbed the consequence.
They had mistaken my help for a permanent financial system.
Worse, so had I.
The repo driver said something I couldn’t hear clearly through the live stream.
Gage’s posture changed.
His shoulders dropped.
Then he finally took the document.
He read the first page.
His eyes moved faster.
Then he called me again.
This time I answered.
“What did you do?” he shouted.
I kept my voice low.
“I stopped doing it for you.”
“They’re taking my car.”
“I can see that.”
“You told them to come here?”
“The lender issued a default notice.
I forwarded the documents to the repossession company.”
“You could have fixed this.”
There it was.
Not: I should have made my payments.
Not: I ignored the warnings.
Not: I’m sorry about Kendall.
You could have fixed this.
“I know,” I said.
He went silent.
I could hear traffic behind him and the heavy mechanical clank of equipment near the BMW.
Then his voice changed.
Lower.
Sharper.
“You’re seriously doing this because of that stupid box?”
Kendall’s hands stopped moving at the table.
She could hear him.
I stood up and walked into the hallway.
“No,” I said.
“I’m doing this because you threw something my daughter made into her face, cut her cheek, laughed at her, and then watched our parents laugh too.
The box showed me what I refused to admit about all of you.”
“She’s fine.”
“That isn’t your decision.”
“It was a joke.”
“Then explain the joke.”
