I read it twice, anger building like a slow, rising tide. Then I deleted it.
Sleep never came that night. Instead, I replayed a year’s worth of memories—every innocent moment turning dark. The times she “borrowed” my laptop. The time she asked for my banking password to “double-check the transfer.” Her casual assurances:
“Don’t worry, I’m keeping track of everything. Full transparency.”
Transparency. The word seared itself into my brain.
Hands trembling, I opened my laptop and logged into my bank account. I pulled up the transfer history.
And there it was—months of deposits, every single one pulled from my account… straight into hers.
Not one payment had reached our parents.
Ten months. Four thousand dollars each month.
Forty thousand dollars.
Gone.
I didn’t call her. I didn’t show up at her door. Not yet.
Anger makes you impulsive.
But revenge?
