I loaned my younger brother $3,000 to cover rent after he lost his job. Two weeks later, I spotted his girlfriend on Instagram flashing designer bags and tagging luxury steakhouses. My chest tightened. I confronted him, and he laughed, saying, “You’re family, not a bank.” The next day I walked into my apartment and found my TV missing.
Not just the TV. My gaming console, two pairs of sneakers, and a jar where I kept emergency cash—gone. My stomach dropped. I live alone and never give out keys, except to one person: my brother, Darren.
I called him immediately, heart racing. No answer. I texted: Did you take my stuff? Call me now. Still nothing. That night, I barely slept. My mind kept circling the same horrible thought—he stole from me.
The next morning, I drove to Mom’s house, where Darren was crashing. She opened the door with a smile. “Oh, good! You’re here to pick up Darren?” My jaw tightened.
“I need to talk to him,” I said flatly.
He was in the living room, lounging like he hadn’t just robbed me. I didn’t even wait to sit down
