I’m Noah, a designer who hustled for every dime. When my sister’s kids trashed my $2,200 iPad, my work essential, she laughed it off. Her attitude forced me to hold her accountable, teaching her responsibility and showing me the value of standing up.
My 20s were brutal—endless shifts, cheap meals, and washing clothes in a sink to afford my design career. I started with a junky tablet, taking shaky gigs. A big contract let me buy a $2,200 iPad Pro, my creative lifeline that secured major deals and a nicer place. During a holiday at my parents’, I worked late, leaving my iPad charging in Dad’s locked office, away from my sister Emma’s kids. The next morning, I found it wrecked on the living room floor, screen cracked, case flung aside. Emma sipped coffee from Mom’s favorite mug. “What happened?” I asked. “Kids broke it,” she said, shrugging. “Use Dad’s old tablet. You’re good.”
Her casual tone burned. “It was locked up,” I said. “How’d they get it?” Emma replied, “I took it for shows. You’re rich, Noah. Buy another.” I said, “It’s $2,200, my job.” She grinned. “No biggie.” Her kids, Ava and Eli, played, ignoring me. The office door was open, my charger loose. “You grabbed my stuff,” I said. Emma sighed. “They were cranky. You were out. Don’t be mean.” I was livid but walked to the bathroom to breathe. Emma’s always been reckless—borrowing for “needs,” then flaunting vacations. I’d saved her, stayed silent. Not this time.
After lunch, while the kids napped, I found Emma on her phone. “You owe me $2,200,” I said. She laughed. “Noah, chill. It’s a tablet.” I didn’t budge. “It’s about owning up. You and your ex pay.” Her eyes narrowed. “Family forgives,” she hissed. I said, “Family doesn’t fake broke with a new truck.” She stormed out, slamming the door. I left, hugging Mom and Dad, not Emma. I filed a court claim. Emma called, yelling. “Suing me over kids?” I said, “Suing someone who won’t step up.” A week later, $2,200 hit my account. She could’ve paid all along.
Emma’s “Family is forgiving” echoed. Was I wrong? I remembered her lies—rent cash for getaways, loans I covered, birthdays I fixed. I’d let her slide. My new iPad was my stand. Emma went silent, then sent a photo of her kids coloring, no screens, with, “Maybe you’re right.” It wasn’t an apology, but a start. I didn’t reply, but didn’t shut her out. You teach respect by making them pay, then sip juice while life shifts.
