I helped with groceries and gave her rides to work.
When she lost her first apartment, she slept on my couch for six weeks.
But somewhere along the way, asking for help became expecting it.
She would call because her phone bill was overdue.
She would then post photographs of a weekend getaway.
She’d borrow money for tires and arrive at my house with expensive shopping bags.
Whenever I questioned her choices, she accused me of treating her like a child.
“You’re my sister, not my accountant,” she’d say.
The previous Friday, she came over after work and asked for $800.
“Just until next month,” she said.
“For what?”
“Rent. I’m behind again.”
I’d already paid part of her rent twice that year.
“What happened to your paycheck?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Why do you always interrogate me?”
“Because I need to know whether you’re going to have the same problem next month.”
