My brother stole my ATM card and withdrew all the money from my account. After empty my account, he kicked me out of the house, saying, “Your work is finished, we got what we wanted, don’t look back at us now.” Parents laughed, “It was a good..

“No, it isn’t.”

Mom let out a soft laugh, like I was a child making a scene. “It was a smart decision. You’ve been hoarding money while living under this roof.”

The room seemed to turn cold. “How much did you take?”

Jason shrugged lazily. “Everything.”

With shaking hands, I grabbed my phone, opened my banking app, and felt the blood drain from my face. Savings: $0.43. Checking: $12.11. The transaction history showed withdrawal after withdrawal from two ATMs across town. Then a wire transfer. He had drained nearly $38,000.

“That was my money for graduate school,” I whispered.

Jason stood up. He was taller than me, broader, and he knew it. “Not anymore.”

“Give it back.”

Dad stood as well, folding his arms. “You’ve been staying here for almost two years. Bills, food, utilities. Your mother and I decided this evens things out.”

“Evens things out?” My voice cracked. “You never asked me for rent.”