Just one.
That night, after tucking the kids into bed, I sat at the kitchen table, the phone heavy in my hand. The house was quiet. Too quiet. I could hear the low hum of the dishwasher from the kitchen, the gentle creak of the hallway vent.
I dialed his number.
“Leah!” he answered on the third ring, far too casually.
“I just got a call from a debt collector,” I said. “They said the car payments haven’t been made since the first month. Drew, what the hell?“
He laughed. My brother actually laughed.
“You should’ve read everything when you signed,” he said. “I have a car. You have payments. Don’t call me again, Leah. Move on with your life.”
Then he hung up!
I sat there, staring at the screen, the silence in the room thickening around me. Heat crawled up my neck and down my spine. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the phone across the room, let it shatter like every ounce of trust I’d placed in my brother.
But more than anything, I wanted to rewind time, to go back to that moment in my kitchen and tear the pen from my hand before I ever signed anything for him.
