Not asked for.
Demanded.
“We’re short,” she said, like the shortage had been assigned to me. Like my savings were a shared family utility bill that I’d forgotten to pay.
She wrapped it in warm language—investment, stability, guest room for you, holidays at the new house, kids running around the yard—but underneath every word was the same message:
I was the safety net. Permanent. Non-negotiable.
I sat there under fluorescent office light, my cursor blinking on an email I couldn’t finish, and I watched the two versions of me collide.
The old Jenna—the one trained to keep the peace—knew how easy it would be to say yes and tell myself I could rebuild later.
The new Jenna—the one who had finally pictured a life not built around other people’s emergencies—knew something sharper:
Later never came.
If I handed over $150,000, it wouldn’t be a sacrifice.
