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My Nephew Dumped Soda on Me—Then My Brother Arrived With the Car Key / Chapter 3 / 7

Chapter 3 — My Nephew Dumped Soda on Me—Then My Brother Arrived With the Car Key

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Tyler made a stupid choice.

We all get that.

But none of that has anything to do with the car.”

I almost smiled.

“It has everything to do with the car.”

Mike’s jaw tightened.

“You’re punishing my family over a joke.”

“No.

I stopped subsidizing people who think humiliating me is funny.”

“That loan was an agreement.”

“And I ended my support according to the lender’s process.”

“You promised to help.”

“I did help.”

For two years.

Every time he was short, I covered the gap.

Every time he promised he would catch up next month, I believed him because my mother invoked Tyler and stability and family.

I had protected Mike from the consequence of his own missed payments so consistently that he had stopped seeing my help as help.

He saw it as part of his income.

My mother stepped closer.

“Stephanie, whatever happened last night, Tyler is a child.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t punish him.”

“I’m not taking his car.

It isn’t his car.”

“He needs transportation.”

“Then his parents need to provide it.”

Her face hardened.

“You can afford the payments.”

That sentence landed with astonishing clarity.

Not Mike can’t afford them.

Not We’ll repay you.

Not Please help us one last time.

You can afford them.

As if the fact that I had built a successful little shop after the worst loss of my life meant everyone else had acquired a claim on whatever I managed to earn.

I said, “So that’s why I still belonged enough to be invited?”

My mother recoiled.

“Don’t twist things.”

“I heard you in the hallway.”

All three of them froze.

Mike’s face drained first.

I repeated his words exactly.

“As long as she keeps covering that payment, she can sulk all she wants.”

He looked at my mother.

She looked away.

Then I repeated hers.

“She should be grateful we still include her at all.”

Tyler’s grip loosened around the key.

Mike whispered, “Steph…”

“No.

You thought the bathroom door was closed.

It wasn’t.”

My mother’s anger vanished for half a second, replaced by embarrassment.

Not remorse.

Embarrassment that I had heard her.

“There was wine,” she said weakly.

“You sounded perfectly sober.”