“After everything we sacrificed, you’re refusing to pay your brother’s mortgage?” my mother shouted before throwing my house keys onto the floor. The metal clattered against the tiles, spinning in a lazy circle before coming to rest near my feet. “You’ve become selfish and American!”
# After Everything We Sacrificed
## Chapter 1
“After everything we sacrificed, you’re refusing to pay your brother’s mortgage?” my mother shouted before throwing my house keys onto the floor. The metal clattered against the tiles, spinning in a lazy circle before coming to rest near my feet. “You’ve become selfish and American!”
The table went silent. Auntie Ifeoma set down her fork with a deliberate clink. My cousins stopped chewing. Even the baby in the corner seemed to hold her breath.
I bent down and picked up the keys. They felt lighter than they should have. “That isn’t my house anymore.”
The words came out softer than I intended. A whisper really. But everyone heard them.
“What do you mean?” Chidi asked. He leaned forward, his fork still loaded with jollof rice. Always eating, my brother. Always taking.
I looked around the dining room. The same room where I’d celebrated my GCSEs. The same room where my father had taught me to play chess before he passed. The same room where, three years ago, I’d announced my engagement to Oliver while my mother cried tears of joy.
Funny how quickly joy can curdle.
“I sold it,” I said. “Three months ago.”
The silence that followed was worse than the shouting. My mother’s face went through a series of expressions—confusion, disbelief, and finally something that looked like betrayal. As if I had stolen something from her personally.
“Three months?” Her voice cracked. “You lived in your flat for three months and never told us?”
“I wasn’t living there.” I set the keys on the table. The metal had grown warm from my grip. “I’d been staying with Oliver. Then after we ended things, I moved into a rental. A small one. Just for me.”
Chidi finally put down his fork. “You ended your engagement and didn’t tell us?”
“Didn’t think you’d notice,” I said. “You were too busy asking for money.”
That landed. I watched it hit him, watched his expression shift from confusion to something defensive. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“You’re not being fair, Amara,” he said finally.
“Fair?” I laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. “Fair is when a family shares burdens equally. Fair is when a brother doesn’t ask his sister to fund his life while he sits on his backside.”
Auntie Ifeoma made a sound low in her throat. The sound of disapproval. The sound that had ended arguments since before I was born.
“Amara.” She spoke my name like a warning. “You will not speak to your brother that way in my presence.”
I looked at her—my father’s sister, the family matriarch. The woman who had decided, years ago, that I would be the responsible one because Chidi was the eldest son and eldest sons needed room to fail.
“My apologies, Auntie,” I said. “But I won’t be paying his mortgage.”
I stood up from the table. My knees felt shaky. The room seemed too hot, too small, too full of people staring at me like I’d grown a second head.
“Where are you going?” my mother demanded.
“To get some air.”
I walked to the front door, ignoring the chorus of voices behind me. My mother calling my name. Chidi muttering about ungrateful sisters. Auntie Ifeoma’s low murmur that sounded like a prayer—or maybe a curse.
Outside, the Birmingham night hit me cold and sharp. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.
Three years of draining my savings. Two years of selling my investments. One year of borrowing against my flat until there was nothing left to borrow. I had built a career in compliance, checking other people’s numbers for a living, and I couldn’t see the math of my own life falling apart.
Love must be earned through sacrifice.
My father told me that. Before he died. Before I became the family’s breadwinner. Before sacrifice became my entire personality.
I checked my phone. Four missed calls from Oliver. One text: *I still have your things. Do you want them, or should I donate?*
No, I typed back. *Throw them away.*
I put my phone away and breathed. The air tasted like diesel and rain. Normal Birmingham. Normal Tuesday night.
Behind me, through the window, I could see my family still gathered around the table. My mother gesturing wildly. Chidi shrugging like none of this was his fault. Auntie Ifeoma nodding along like she knew what was best for everyone.
They had no idea I was already drowning.
I started walking. Just walking. Past the corner shop where I used to buy sweets as a child. Past the church where I’d been confirmed. Past the bus stop where Oliver first kissed me.
I ended up at my new flat. Well, new to me. A studio above a dry cleaner’s. The kind of place you don’t invite people to. The kind of place where the landlord doesn’t ask questions about your credit score because he knows you can’t afford better.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside. Single bed. Tiny kitchen. A window that looked out on the back alley.
My entire life had come down to this. And somehow, standing there in the dark, I felt lighter than I had in years.
I sat on the edge of my bed and pulled out my phone. Opened my banking app. Scrolled through the transactions—the transfers to my mother, the payments to Chidi’s creditors, the charity contributions I’d made on behalf of the family because someone had to maintain our reputation.
Twenty-three thousand pounds. That’s what I’d sent Chidi in the past twelve months alone.
And I still wasn’t done. Because at the bottom of the list was an automatic payment I’d set up six months ago—a direct debit to my brother’s mortgage account. The one my mother was so desperate for me to continue.
I canceled it.
My thumb hovered over the confirmation button. One tap and it was done. One tap and I was free. One tap and my mother would never forgive me.
I tapped it.
The notification appeared on screen: *Direct debit canceled.*
I stared at it for a long moment. Then I closed the app and lay back on my bed.
My phone buzzed. Another text from Oliver: *Are you sure? Some of this stuff is expensive. Your mother’s necklace.*
I sat up so fast my head spun. *What necklace?*
Three dots appeared. Then vanished. Then appeared again.
*The gold one she gave you for your graduation. It’s in your jewelry box.*
I didn’t have a jewelry box. I’d never owned enough jewelry to need one.
But my mother did.
The dots appeared again. *Do you want me to send it?*
I typed back slowly: *Where exactly did you find this necklace?*
Oliver’s response came immediately: *In your bedside table. In a white box with a red ribbon.*
I closed my eyes.
I had never put anything in my bedside table. Oliver and I had barely used the bedroom in the last few months—too much tension, too much distance, too much of me working late while he slept alone.
But my mother had visited often. My mother, who complained about her aching knees and needed to rest. My mother, who knew exactly where I kept my spare keys.
My phone buzzed again. *Amara?*
I typed: *Bring it to me tomorrow. I’ll be at work.*
I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling.
This wasn’t just about Chidi’s mortgage anymore. This wasn’t just about my mother’s demands or my brother’s laziness.
This was about everything.
And I was done.
—
## Chapter 2
My office smelled like stale coffee and desperation. That’s what I told myself every morning as I walked past the cubicles and the open-plan desks and the managers who pretended to care about employee wellbeing while tracking our toilet breaks.
I sat down at my computer and opened my calendar. Nine a.m. meeting with the compliance team. Eleven a.m. review of client accounts. One p.m. lunch with the junior analysts.
Normal day. Normal life.
Except nothing felt normal anymore.
My phone buzzed. My mother. I let it go to voicemail.
Then Chidi. Then Chidi again. Then my mother.
I put my phone face-down on my desk and tried to focus on my work. But my eyes kept drifting to the notification light blinking green in my peripheral vision.
Finally, at ten-thirty, I couldn’t take it anymore. I stepped into the break room and called my mother back.
“Why didn’t you answer?” she demanded.
“I’m working.”
“Working.” She made it sound like a dirty word. “You told me you sold your flat. You told me you ended your engagement. You told me you canceled Chidi’s mortgage payment. What else have you been keeping from me?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.” I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the vending machine. “I just didn’t want to tell you all at once.”
“Because you knew I would be upset?”
“Because I knew you would shout.”
The pause that followed was heavy. I could hear my mother breathing—the long inhale, the slow exhale, the sound she made when she was trying to control her temper.
“You’re a bad daughter,” she said finally. “A bad daughter and a bad sister.”
I closed my eyes. “I know you’re angry—”
“Angry?” Her voice cracked. “You have no idea what angry means. I raised you. I sacrificed everything for you and your brother. I came to this country with nothing but a suitcase and a dream. I gave you everything. And this is how you repay me?”
“You didn’t give me everything.” The words came out before I could stop them. “You gave me expectations. You gave me demands. You gave me a list of things I was supposed to do and become and pay for.”
“Amara—”
“No.” I opened my eyes. “I’ve been paying for this family since I was twenty-two years old. I’ve been funding Chidi’s life since before he had a job. I’ve been the responsible one, the reliable one, the one who always says yes. And it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. Because you’ll always want more.”
My mother was silent.
“I’m not paying his mortgage,” I said. “I’m not giving him another pound. And if that makes me a bad daughter, then so be it.”
I hung up before she could respond.
Back at my desk, I found a message from Chidi: *Can you meet me for lunch? There’s something I need to discuss with you.*
I didn’t respond. Instead, I opened my emails and started going through the morning’s correspondence.
The first one was from my bank. Routine statement. I scrolled through it without really seeing the numbers.
The second one was from a collections agency. Addressed to me. I opened it out of curiosity, expecting some kind of marketing.
What I found made me stop breathing.
*Dear Ms. Okoye,*
*This notice serves as confirmation that you have been listed as a guarantor on loan #4587-221, issued to Mr. Chidi Okoye on March 15th of this year. As the primary borrower is currently in arrears, we are writing to inform you that the outstanding balance will be transferred to your account on the next billing cycle.*
I read it again. Then again. Then a third time.
My name. Listed as a guarantor.
On a loan I had never signed.
A loan for twenty thousand pounds.
I looked at the date. March 15th. Six months ago. The same week my mother had visited my flat and “rested” in my bedroom.
My hands were shaking.
I called Chidi. He answered on the second ring.
“Did you get my message?” he asked.
“Did I get your message?” My voice came out high and thin. “Chidi, what have you done?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“There’s a collection notice on my desk. A loan in my name. For twenty thousand pounds.”
The line went quiet.
“Chidi.”
“I can explain—”
“Explain, then.” I pressed the phone so hard against my ear it hurt. “Explain to me why your name is on a loan that I’m apparently guaranteeing.”
“It was Mother’s idea.”
Of course it was. Of course everything came back to her.
“She said if you knew, you’d say no,” he continued. “She said it was for the family. She said you’d understand once everything was sorted out.”
“Sorted out?” I laughed. “I have a collections agency calling me about a debt I never agreed to. How is that sorted out?”
“Amara, I’m sorry—”
“Sorry isn’t good enough.”
I hung up and stared at the email. Twenty thousand pounds. Plus interest. Plus collection fees.
My mother had gone into my flat. She had found my documents. She had forged my signature.
For Chidi.
For her precious eldest son.
The thought made me nauseous.
I grabbed my bag and walked out of the office. I didn’t care that it wasn’t lunchtime. I didn’t care that I had a meeting in forty minutes. I didn’t care about any of it.
I needed air. I needed space. I needed to figure out how my life had gone so completely wrong.
I ended up at a café near my flat, sitting in the corner with a cup of coffee that had gone cold. I stared at the collection notice on my phone, reading it over and over like I might find a loophole.
But there was no loophole. There was just my mother’s handwriting. My mother’s signature. My mother’s betrayal.
My phone buzzed. Oliver.
*I’m outside your office. Got the necklace. Are you here?*
I typed back: *I left. Meet me at the café on Priory Street.*
He showed up ten minutes later, looking tired and uncomfortable. He placed a white box on the table between us.
“I found it in the bedroom,” he said. “Actually, I found it in a shoe box in the back of the wardrobe.”
“Show me.”
He opened it. Inside, nestled on velvet, was my mother’s gold necklace. The one she’d worn to every family celebration. The one she’d told me she’d lost years ago.
“She kept it here,” I said. “While you and I were together. She must have hidden it.”
Oliver frowned. “Why would she do that?”
I looked at him. My former fiancé. The man I’d pushed away because I couldn’t stop bleeding money for my family.
Because I couldn’t tell him the truth.
“Because she was planning something,” I said. “Something that required access to my documents and my signature.”
“Amara—”
“I know. I know how crazy it sounds.” I closed the box. “But I can’t explain it any other way.”
Oliver reached across the table and took my hand. His grip was warm, familiar.
“You should report her,” he said quietly. “What she did—it’s fraud.”
“I can’t report my own mother.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
I pulled my hand away. “I’m going to find out what else she’s done.”
—
## Chapter 3
The address on the collection notice led me to a terraced house on the outskirts of Birmingham. A modest place. Blue front door. Small garden. The kind of house you’d never notice unless you were looking for it.
I knocked three times, then stood back and waited.
A woman opened the door. She was younger than I expected, maybe mid-twenties. Dark hair pulled back. A baby on her hip.
“Yes?” She looked at me with suspicion. That was fair. I would have looked at me with suspicion too.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m looking for Chidi Okoye.”
Her face changed. The suspicion turned to something harder.
“He’s not here.”
“I know. I’m his sister.”
The baby started crying. She bounced him on her hip, rocking him gently while she studied me.
“His sister,” she repeated. “The one with the money.”
I blinked. “What did you say?”
“The one with the money,” she said again. “He talks about you all the time. Amara, right? The one who pays for everything?”
“I—yes.” I felt dizzy. “And you are?”
“His wife.”
I must have made a sound. She laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“His wife,” she said. “Since last year. Second wife, anyway. He’s got another one in the city.”
I leaned against the doorframe. The world tilted.
“You didn’t know,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“No. I didn’t know.”
“Typical.” She stepped aside. “You better come in.”
I followed her into the house. Small living room. Baby toys on the floor. A picture on the mantle—Chidi and this woman, smiling at the camera like a happy family.
“He used my money,” I said. “He used my money to pay for this.”
“I know.” She sat down on the sofa, settling the baby in her lap. “He told me all about you. Said you’re the responsible one. The one who takes care of everything.”
I sank into the chair across from her. “How long have you known about this?”
“About him?” She gestured at the baby. “I’ve known about him for a year and a half. I found out about you a few months ago. Found out he’s been using you to pay for our house, pay for our life, pay for everything.”
“So you knew he was stealing from me?”
“I knew he was taking money. I didn’t know it was stealing.” She looked at me. “I thought you were helping him. I thought it was a family arrangement.”
“It was an arrangement,” I said. “Just not one I agreed to.”
The baby settled. The house went quiet.
I pulled out my phone and opened the collection notice. “He took out a loan in my name. Signed my name. Made me the guarantor.”
“Does that mean you have to pay it?”
“Eventually. Unless I contest it.”
“Can you contest it?”
“I don’t know.” I looked at her. “If I do, it’ll ruin him. It’ll ruin his credit. He might go to prison.”
“Good.”
I stared at her.
“He stole from you,” she said. “He lied to you. He lied to me. He’s been playing all of us.”
I nodded slowly. “Yes. He has.”
“Then why are you hesitating?”
I thought about my mother. My mother with her high expectations and her demands. My mother who had always protected Chidi. My mother who had forged my signature.
“Because it’s not just him,” I said. “It’s all of them. My whole family.”
“Then maybe it’s time they learned.”
I looked at her. Really looked at her. This woman who had been kept in the shadows, who had been made a secret, who had quietly raised a child while pretending her marriage was normal.
“Will you help me?” I asked.
“Help you how?”
“I’m going to expose him,” I said. “I’m going to call a family meeting. A formal financial meeting. And I want you there. With the bank statements. With the baby. With everything.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll help you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Naomi.” She held out her hand. “Naomi Okoye.”
I took it. Her grip was firm.
“Thank you, Naomi.”
She smiled. It was the first real smile I’d seen since I walked in.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “This is just the beginning.”
I walked back to my flat in a daze. The evening air was cold, but I barely felt it. My mind was racing, turning over everything I’d learned.
Chidi had a second wife. A second family. And he’d used my money to build it.
All while I was losing my flat. My engagement. My future.
I sat down on my bed and pulled out my phone. Scrolled through the contacts until I found Oliver’s number.
He answered on the first ring. “Amara? Are you okay?”
“I need your help.”
“With what?”
“I’m planning a meeting,” I said. “A big one. And I need you to make sure Chidi shows up.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because he used my money. He stole from me. And I’m going to make him answer for it.”
Oliver was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “What’s the plan?”
I told him. Everything. The loan. The second wife. The collection notice. The necklace.
“The meeting is at the family house,” I said. “Auntie Ifeoma’s house. Everyone will be there.”
“And you want me to be there?”
“Yes.” I closed my eyes. “I need witnesses.”
“Amara—”
“Please, Oliver. I can’t do this alone.”
He sighed. “Okay. I’ll be there.”
I hung up and lay back on my bed.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
—
## Chapter 4
Auntie Ifeoma’s living room had never been so full. My mother sat in the corner, her face tight with anger. Chidi paced near the window. Auntie Ifeoma occupied her usual chair, watching everyone with an expression that said she knew exactly what was happening.
Oliver stood by the door, his presence a quiet reassurance.
And Naomi sat in the center of the room, holding her baby, surrounded by bank statements.
“What is this?” my mother demanded. “What is she doing here?”
“Naomi is Chidi’s wife,” I said. “His other wife.”
The room erupted. My mother shouted. Auntie Ifeoma made the sound. Chidi tried to speak, but his voice was drowned out by the noise.
“Everyone be quiet!” I yelled.
The room went silent.
“Naomi is going to tell us what she knows,” I said. “And I want everyone to listen.”
Naomi stood up, shifting the baby to her hip. “I’ve been married to Chidi for eighteen months,” she said. “I knew he had a family when I met him. I didn’t know he had two families. Or that he was using his sister’s money to pay for us.”
My mother made a sound. “That’s not true. Chidi—”
“Let her finish.” I turned to my mother. “You’ve been protecting him for years. It’s time you heard the truth.”
Naomi continued. “I have bank statements. Transfers from Amara’s account into Chidi’s. Transfers from Chidi’s account into mine. The money goes around in circles, but it all starts with her.”
She spread the statements across the coffee table. Dozens of pages. Hundreds of transactions.
“Auntie Ifeoma,” I said. “Do you see those?”
Auntie Ifeoma leaned forward. Her eyes scanned the documents.
“Twenty thousand pounds,” she said quietly. “Over the past year alone.”
“More than that,” Naomi said. “The loan—”
“The loan is fraudulent,” I said. “I never signed it.”
My mother’s face went white. “Amara—”
“You forged my signature.” I turned to her. “You went into my flat, you found my documents, and you signed my name. For him.”
“I did it for the family—”
“You did it for Chidi.” My voice broke. “You’ve always done it for Chidi. You’ve sacrificed everything for him. Including me.”
My mother opened her mouth. Closed it. For once, she had nothing to say.
Chidi stepped forward. “This is ridiculous. Amara fabricated all of this because she’s jealous. She’s always been jealous of me.”
“Jealous of what?” I laughed. “Your failures? Your debts? Your secret family?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me.” My voice was shaking now. “You’ve been taking my money for years. You took my savings. You took my flat. You took my engagement.”
“It wasn’t my fault—”
“No.” I stepped toward him. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to blame anyone else. You did this. You and Mother. Together.”
Chidi looked at my mother. She looked away.
“Naomi has the records,” I said. “I have the collection notice. Oliver has the necklace. And I’m done.”
“Done with what?” Auntie Ifeoma asked.
“Done with all of it.” I turned to face the room. “I’m not paying another pound for this family. I’m not supporting Chidi anymore. I’m not funding my mother’s lies. I’m done.”
My mother stood up. “You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
“Amara, you have to understand—”
“I understand everything.” I picked up a bank statement from the table. “I understand that you came to this country with nothing. That you worked hard. That you sacrificed. I understand that you want the best for your children. But what you’ve done—what you’ve allowed him to do—it’s not love. It’s abuse.”
My mother flinched.
“Amara, please.” Chidi reached for my arm. I pulled away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Amara—”
“I said don’t touch me.”
Naomi stepped forward. She set the baby down on the sofa and walked toward Chidi.
“Your wife,” she said. “Your other wife. The one in the city. You’ve been lying to her too.”
“She doesn’t matter—”
“She matters to me.” Naomi pulled out her phone. “Because I called her. She’s on her way.”
Chidi went pale. “You did what?”
“She wanted to know the truth. So I told her.”
The front door opened.
A woman walked in. Beautiful. Confident. Expensively dressed.
“Hello, Chidi.” She smiled. “Long time no see.”
His face crumpled. “I can explain—”
“Don’t bother.” She walked past him and stood beside Naomi. “I’ve known for weeks. I have statements too. My own lawyers, my own accountants, my own records.”
“You were supposed to be in Paris—”
“I was in Paris. But Naomi called. And I flew back.”
Chidi looked from one woman to the other. His eyes were wide. His face was pale.
“This is a nightmare,” he said. “All of you—this is insane.”
“Insane,” Naomi repeated. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’ve been saying.”
Auntie Ifeoma stood up. Her voice was low and steady.
“I think we should all sit down and talk about this.”
The two women exchanged a look.
And the room went quiet.
—
## Chapter 5
The financial meeting lasted four hours.
My mother sat in the corner, her face buried in her hands. Chidi tried to explain, tried to deflect, tried to blame everyone except himself. But Naomi and his other wife had evidence for everything. Bank statements. Phone records. Photographs.
By the end, Auntie Ifeoma had seen enough.
“Get out,” she said to Chidi. “Get out of my house.”
” Auntie—”
“I said get out.”
He stumbled toward the door. No one followed him.
His other wife handed me an envelope. “These are the court documents,” she said. “I had my lawyer file them this morning. He’ll be charged with fraud. Conspiracy. Forgery.”
“How long will he get?”
“Few years, probably. More if he fights it.”
“Good.”
Naomi stepped forward. She had the baby on her hip again, rocking him gently.
“Where will you go?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” I gestured at my flat. “I have a studio. It’s small, but it’s mine.”
“Will you be okay?”
I thought about everything. The loan. The flat. Oliver. My mother’s betrayal. Chidi’s lies.
“I think so,” I said. “For the first time in years, I think I will be.”
Oliver walked me home. We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to.
At my door, he stopped.
“Amara—”
“I know.” I turned to face him. “You don’t have to say it.”
“But I do.” He took my hand. “I was wrong. I was wrong about us. I was wrong about everything.”
“Oliver—”
“Let me finish.” He squeezed my hand. “I thought you were pulling away because of me. I thought I wasn’t good enough. But it wasn’t me. It was them. It was all of them.”
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “You should have. But I understand why you didn’t.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I leaned forward and kissed him.
It was soft. Brief. A beginning, maybe.
“I have to go,” I said. “My first paycheck is tomorrow.”
“Your first what?”
“My first paycheck I’m spending on myself.” I smiled. “I’m buying new sheets. New towels. New everything.”
Oliver smiled back. “That sounds perfect.”
I walked into my flat and closed the door.
The next morning, I woke up early and watched the sunrise from my window. The back alley was still dark, but the sky was turning pink. The smell of dry cleaning drifted up from downstairs.
I pulled out my phone and opened my banking app.
The money was there. My salary. My full salary. No deductions for Chidi. No transfers to my mother. No automatic payments for anyone except me.
I stared at the number for a long moment.
Then I bought the sheets. The towels. A new pillow.
And I felt something I hadn’t felt in years.
Free.
I checked my email while I waited for my coffee to brew. One from my mother, sent last night. I opened it without thinking.
*Amara,*
*I was wrong. I’ve known it for a long time, but I didn’t want to admit it. Your brother needed help, and I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was protecting him. But I wasn’t protecting anyone. I was hurting you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.*
I stared at the screen. My mother had never apologized for anything in her life.
I didn’t respond.
Instead, I made my coffee and sat by the window. Watched the city wake up. Watched the people walk past the shop below.
My phone buzzed. Oliver.
*Breakfast?*
I typed: *Yes.*
Another buzz. Naomi.
*Are we still doing this?*
I smiled. She’d asked me to be a witness at her divorce hearing. Chidi’s other wife had offered to pay for the lawyer.
I typed back: *Yes. I’ll be there.*
I set the phone down and finished my coffee.
The loan was being contested. The necklace had been returned to my mother. Auntie Ifeoma had called to say she was proud of me.
And Chidi? He was facing charges. His wife was leaving him. His other wife was leaving him. He’d lost everything—the house, the money, the family.
And I’d lost nothing.
I’d gained.
I stood up and walked to the window. The sun was rising higher now, casting light across the rooftops.
Tomorrow was payday again. And I knew exactly what I was going to spend my money on.
Myself.
