Sabrina, of course, had her own thoughts.
“Just don’t be dramatic, okay?” she said during a phone call, gum snapping loudly through the speaker. “This is supposed to be a happy weekend. You always ruin the vibe when you cry or act stressed.”
I stood in the hospital stairwell, listening to her voice echo off the concrete walls, and wondered if she had ever once considered that maybe my stress came from carrying the weight of our entire family.
And then—predictably—the real crisis hit.
Three days before graduation, Sabrina’s name flashed across my phone. Her message was long. Frantic. Screenshots of credit card statements, emails, threats of legal action.
She had defaulted on a card tied to some “business opportunity” she swore would make her rich. The company claimed she owed thousands. They were threatening to sue.
“Liv, please,” she typed. “If this goes to court, I’ll die. I need $4,000. Today.”
I didn’t have $4,000. Not really. But within minutes, my parents were calling. Their voices shaking. Not with concern for me—no, that never changed.
“You have to help her,” Mom cried. “It’s serious. You know she’s weak.”
“If this goes on her record,” Dad added, “it’ll ruin her future. You’re the only one who can fix this.”
That line.
You’re the only one who can fix this.
I’d heard it my whole life.
I sat in the staff break room. The smell of microwaved noodles hung in the air. My scrubs still stained from a twelve-hour shift I hadn’t processed. My graduation gown still in its plastic bag. Notifications pinging in the background as final project deadlines came and went.
And I transferred the money.
Almost all of it.
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