It was not a question.
“But Mom,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’ve been working for a year. That’s my money.”
Mom’s face hardened.
“Isabella, family sacrifices. Your sister is in trouble. Do you want the neighbors to sue us? Do you want us to be embarrassed? Don’t be selfish.”
Selfish.
That was the word she always used.
If I wanted to keep something for myself, I was selfish.
If I wanted to protect what was mine, I was selfish.
I gave her the money.
I cried myself to sleep, but I gave her the money.
Elina got a new scooter a month later.
Dad bought it for her.
I never got my car.
I took the bus until I was twenty-two.
It got worse in college.
I went to a state school on a scholarship.
I worked two jobs, waitressing and tutoring, to pay for my books and rent.
I never asked my parents for a dime.
Elina went to a private art college.
It was incredibly expensive.
My parents paid for everything.
Tuition.
A luxury apartment.
A new car.
Clothes.
Parties.
I remember coming home for Thanksgiving during my junior year.
I was exhausted.
I had been working double shifts.
I was wearing boots with a hole in the sole because I could not afford new ones.
Elina was showing off a new designer handbag.
“Isn’t it cute?” she squealed. “Mom got it for me for getting a B in painting class.”
I looked at Mom.
“I made the dean’s list,” I said quietly. “I have a four-point GPA.”
Mom did not even look up from chopping vegetables.
“That’s nice, Isabella. You’ve always been book smart. Elina is creative. It’s harder for her. We have to encourage her.”
I went to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror.
I looked tired.
My skin was pale.
I looked five years older than I was.
Why could they not see me?
Why was my hard work invisible?
But the real extraction started when I graduated and got a good job.
I became a junior accountant at a big firm.
I was making decent money for the first time in my life.
I thought, Finally.
Now I can build my life.
But Mom saw my salary as a family resource.
It started with a phone call.
“Isabella, the roof is leaking. Dad is stressed. Can you send five hundred?”
I sent it.
Then:
“Isabella, Elina needs a dress for her friend’s wedding. She can’t go looking like a pauper. Send three hundred.”
I sent it.
Then:
“Isabella, we’re behind on the mortgage just this once. Two thousand.”
I sent it.
Every time I sent money, I felt a little sick.
But I also felt a little hope.
Maybe now they will appreciate me, I thought.
Maybe now I am important.
I was buying their love.
But the price kept going up, and the product was never delivered.
My sister never said thank you.
Not once.
She would take the money, buy the dress or the trip or the gadget, and post pictures online.
She looked happy.
She looked carefree.
I was the one staying late at the office.
I was the one eating instant noodles so I could afford to send them checks.
I was the one with the stomach ulcer from stress.
One Sunday, about a year before I left, I went over for lunch.
I had just paid off a huge credit card bill for Elina.
She had maxed it out on a vacation to Mexico that she needed because she was depressed.
I walked into the kitchen.
Mom and Elina were laughing.
They stopped when I came in.
“Oh, hi, Isabella,” Elina said.
She sounded bored.
“Hi,” I said.
I sat down.
“I paid the card, Elina. But you have to promise not to use it again. That was all my savings.”
Elina rolled her eyes.
She actually rolled her eyes.
“God, Isabella, you’re so dramatic. It’s just money. You make plenty. Why are you so stingy?”
I looked at Mom, waiting for her to defend me.
Waiting for her to say, Elina, your sister worked hard for that money. Say thank you.
Mom just sighed.
“Don’t start a fight, Isabella. We’re having a nice day. Don’t bring your stress in here.”
My stress.
My stress was caused by them.
That was the moment I felt the crack in my foundation.
It was not a loud noise.
It was a quiet snap inside my chest.
I realized then it was never help.
It was extraction.
They were mining me like I was a piece of land.
They would keep digging until I was empty, and then they would leave me with the hole.
But I stayed.
I stayed for another year.
Habit is a powerful chain.
Guilt is a heavy anchor.
I did not know how to leave.
I did not know who I was if I was not Isabella, the strong one.
Isabella, the provider.
I did not know that the final blow was coming.
I did not know that a simple dinner would end my life as I knew it.
The night of the dinner, the air felt heavy.
It was a Tuesday.
I had worked ten hours that day.
Mom had called and said, “Come for dinner. It’s important.”
I drove over tired and anxious.