I’ve earned everything I have through genuine hard work.
Not the kind you see on social media with workout selfies or motivational quotes. I mean the kind of grind that leaves you completely drained — pulling all-nighters, skipping meals to afford design software, hand-washing clothes because laundromats were too expensive.
No doubt, I’ve put in the effort.
Throughout my twenties, every penny I made went toward building my freelance design career — from band posters to small gigs and cheap logos. I worked on a worn-out tablet I bought from a pawn shop, with a terrible screen. Sometimes I got paid, sometimes I didn’t. But I never quit.
Finally, when I landed a solid contract, I made one big investment: a 1TB iPad Pro. It cost over two thousand dollars. To others, just a fancy gadget. To me, it was my whole studio — my meetings, deadlines, and work all lived on that device. It helped me get bigger clients and move out of a cramped apartment into a better place. It was my fresh start.
So seeing it smashed on my parents’ living room floor felt like something inside me shattered too.
We were home for the holidays — a brief family visit before the new year. I had been up late finishing a project and left my iPad charging in Dad’s office, safely out of reach.
But the next morning, half asleep and craving coffee, I walked into the living room and stopped dead.
There it lay, face down on the hardwood, the screen shattered like a spiderweb. The case tossed aside like garbage.
Josie, my sister, sat on the couch sipping from the “Best Mom Ever” mug I gave Mom years ago.
“Jo, what happened here?” I asked, pointing.
She barely reacted. “The kids broke it. Chill, Tyler. Dad’s got an old tablet you can use. It works for YouTube. You’ll survive.”
No apology. No guilt.
“How’d the kids even get it? It wasn’t out where they could reach,” I said.
“I gave it to them,” she shrugged. “They wanted cartoons. Don’t be so dramatic. You’ve got a good job — just buy a new one.”
“That was a $2,000 work tool, Josie,” I said carefully.
“You’re doing fine. Why are you acting like it’s a disaster?”
I said nothing. My jaw hurt from clenching so tight.
Her kids sat on the floor, flipping channels without a glance.
I checked Dad’s office. The door was open, the charger hanging off the desk.
“You took something that wasn’t yours,” I told her.
“They were fussy,” she said. “I needed a break. I just wanted some peace. You weren’t using it—you were sleeping.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “You let your kids break something expensive that wasn’t theirs!”
“Relax,” she said, louder now. “You’re their uncle. Can’t you share? What’s the big deal?”
My hands trembled. I left and locked myself in the bathroom, breathing deep.
Josie had always been careless and entitled — the type who asks for money for “groceries” then vanishes. I once sent her rent money after she cried on the phone.
A week later, she posted pictures at a fancy resort — no mention of me.
She made her problems mine — rent, her car, her kids. And I always helped.
I was the “nice” brother. The one who said “It’s fine,” even when it wasn’t.
But this time, it wasn’t fine.
Because letting it slide meant no consequences. I couldn’t keep being her safety net.
Not after she treated my most important tool like a toy. Not after she laughed when it broke.
Not this time.
That afternoon, while the kids napped and football played quietly, I found Josie scrolling her phone with popcorn nearby.
She didn’t look up when I sat down.
“You owe me $2,200,” I said calmly but firmly.
She laughed like I’d made a joke.
“Tyler, seriously? It’s just a tablet. Get a new one.”
“I’m serious.”
“Oh please,” she groaned, tossing her phone. “You’re fighting me over this? Your sister?”
“This isn’t about the tablet. It’s about you dodging responsibility.”
“Forget it,” she rolled her eyes.
“No. You and Duncan are the parents. Sort it out. Ask your ex for help. I’m done bailing you out.”
She looked hurt, then stormed out, slamming the door.
That night, I hugged Mom and Dad goodbye but said nothing to Josie.
Next morning, I filed a claim in small claims court.
Two days later, Josie called, yelling.
“How could you do this?!” she screamed.
“Hey, Jo,” I said calmly.
“You’re really suing me? Over kids? Your niece and nephew?”
“No, Jo. I’m suing someone who won’t take responsibility.”
Then I hung up.
Mom later told me Josie cried, feeling embarrassed and betrayed — but even Mom seemed tired, like she finally understood what I had all along.
Dad stayed out of it.
I didn’t expect Josie to pay quickly. I braced for a long fight.
But a week later, my phone buzzed — a $2,200 deposit.
All at once. Like she’d had the money all along but assumed I wouldn’t make her pay.
I told myself to take the money, buy a new iPad, and move on.
But I kept thinking about what she said: “Family is supposed to forgive.”
It weighed on me. Had I gone too far? Was I the bad guy?
Maybe I should’ve let it go.
But then I remembered every time I did let it go.
Like when I gave her half my paycheck for rent, only to see her flaunting a new phone case days later.
Or when she wrecked her car and I co-signed a loan she never paid back.
Or Maddie’s birthday, when I covered everything because Josie forgot to plan it — and she never thanked me.
She expected me to be the safety net, the quiet helper, the one who kept things from falling apart.
But people like Josie only learn when things really cost them.
The new iPad arrived two days later. I unboxed it carefully, installed my apps, and didn’t feel luxury.
I felt self-respect. A boundary drawn. A line in the sand: Enough.
For once, I didn’t carry her mistakes. I let her face them.
She didn’t speak to me for a while — which honestly felt like peace.
Then, a month later, she sent a photo of Maddie and Matt at the table, coloring with crayons. Caption: “No screens today. Just crayons.”
And a message:
“Didn’t think you’d really do it, Tyler. Thought I could guilt you again. Maybe you were right. Maybe I needed that.”
Not quite an apology, but maybe a fresh start.
I didn’t reply — but I didn’t block her either.
Because sometimes, people only learn to respect what you’ve built…
When they break it — and you hold them accountable.
While eating a slice of carrot cake.
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