The screen of my laptop glowed in the dim kitchen, casting a pale, cold light across the granite countertop.

Bang, bang, bang.

Neil and I exchanged a glance over our morning coffee. Hannah was still asleep upstairs, exhausted from the emotional fallout of the day before.

"I'll get it," Neil said, standing up.

"No," I said, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel. "It's my family. Let me answer."

I walked down the hallway, my bare feet padding softly against the hardwood floor, and pulled the door open.

My mother pushed past me before I could even draw a breath, her face flushed with anger and embarrassment. My father followed close behind, jaw clenched, looking like a man who had been dragged into a war he never wanted to fight. And trailing them was Trisha—mascara running in dark streaks down her cheeks, clutching her designer handbag like a shield.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Trisha shrieked, slamming the front door shut behind her. "Are you clinically insane? Do you know what you just did?"

"Keep your voice down," I said coldly, crossing my arms over my chest. "My daughter is sleeping."

"Your daughter!" Trisha spat, stepping right into my personal space. "You ruined my life over some loose change? Over a kid's stupid little savings jar? The London program starts in three weeks! My apartment deposit is paid! My visa is approved! And you just pulled the rug out from under me because you’re jealous!"

"Jealous?" I repeated, letting out a dry, humorless laugh. "Trisha, look at me. What part of my life looks like I'm jealous of yours?"

"Stop it, both of you," my mother intervened, stepping between us and waving her hands frantically. "Andrea, drop the attitude right now. You promised that money. You’ve been paying into that account for two years! You can't just cut her off because of a family disagreement at a barbecue."

"It wasn't a disagreement, Mom," I said, locking eyes with her. "Trisha bullied a seven-year-old child. She stole sixteen hundred dollars from Hannah's hands, threatened to publicly shame her if she didn't comply, and then used that exact money to buy flashier gifts for her own kids to show off in front of you and Dad."

Silence dropped over the entryway like an anvil.

My mother blinked, her expression shifting from defensive rage to genuine confusion. She turned to Trisha. "What is she talking about? What sixteen hundred dollars?"

Trisha’s eyes darted away for a fraction of a second—a telltale sign I had known since we were children. "She’s lying! Hannah wanted to contribute to the family! She gave it to me voluntarily!"

"She told me you called her a selfish little brat if she didn't hand it over," I said, stepping forward until Trisha was forced to look at me. "Do you want me to wake Hannah up right now and have her repeat it to Dad?"

My father, who had been standing silently by the door with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, finally spoke. His voice was low, gravelly, and dangerous.

"Did you take money from your niece, Trisha?"

Trisha’s lower lip quivered, the performance kicking into high gear. "Dad, don't start with this! Andrea has brainwashed everyone into thinking I'm some kind of monster! I needed a temporary loan! I was going to pay Hannah back with interest! But Andrea is punishing me because she’s always hated my success!"

"My success," I echoed, shaking my head. "Trisha, every single thing you have—from the clothes on your back to the phone you're recording me with right now—has been subsidized by me, Neil, or Mom and Dad. You have never earned a single thing in your entire adult life."

"That's enough!" my mother snapped, reverting to her default setting: protecting the fragile, chaotic sibling while sacrificing the stable one. "Family helps family! That’s how we’ve always done it! If Trisha made a mistake with the little girl's jar, she can apologize! But you cannot hold forty thousand dollars hostage over petty childishness!"

"It's not hostage money, Mom," I said smoothly. "It's my money. And as of last night, it’s no longer available for embezzlement disguised as art school tuition."

"You're cutting me off?" Trisha whispered, her voice dropping to a trembling register. She looked at my parents, tears spilling over her eyelashes. "They're destroying my future. Look at them. They don't care about me at all."

"Get out of my house," I said, pointing straight toward the front door.

"Andrea—" my father started.

"I said, get out," I repeated, my voice hard as iron. "Or I call the police and report my sister for extortion and theft from a minor. Let's see how the London conservatory handles a student with a pending police report."

Trisha gasped, grabbed my mother’s arm, and bolted through the front door without another word. My mother shot me a look of pure, unadulterated venom before following her out, slamming the door so hard the framed photos in the hallway rattled against the wall.

Dad lingered for a second, looking at me with a strange, heavy expression.