Every financial mess ended up in my lap.
And every time I fixed one, they called me “good with money,” as though self-control were luck, as though exhaustion were a talent, as though giving up pieces of my own life were something I simply enjoyed.
Chapter 3 — The Family Account
If I laid out the years plainly, the shape of it would embarrass me, which is exactly why I never laid it out.
When my younger sister Brynn dropped out of college and needed money to “start over” — the first of several starting-overs, each one funded by me — I paid.
When my father’s construction business nearly went under, I quietly kept it breathing with transfers I told myself were loans and knew, even then, I would never see again.
When my mother cried over overdue bills, I emptied my savings without asking a single question, because asking questions was not the role I had been assigned.
My role was to write the check and feel grateful I was able to.
That was the arrangement, though no one had ever said it aloud: I gave, and in exchange I was permitted to remain at the edge of the family, useful enough to keep around.
I want to be fair.