“But her place has three bedrooms.”
“Precisely why it makes sense.
You have two young children.
You’re the one who actually needs it.”
Then my father joined in, using that dry, final tone he always adopted once he had decided a family issue was settled.
“Besides, Jessi has always been the responsible one.
She knows family comes first.”
I didn’t move.
At thirty, I had spent nearly seven years guarding every dollar I earned.
I worked in corporate financial analysis for a global firm.
For years, I brought lunch from home, skipped expensive weekend trips, replaced clothes only when necessary, and volunteered for brutal projects no one else wanted because they came with quarterly bonuses.
Every sacrifice had one purpose.
Buying my own home.
It wasn’t some enormous mansion.
It was a sleek three-bedroom apartment in a desirable neighborhood, with an open kitchen, private balcony, and reserved parking.
The purchase price had been nearly $640,000.
And after years of aggressive mortgage prepayments, bonuses, and sacrifice, I was only a few months from owning it outright.
Chloe had never shown the same discipline.
She was four years younger than me, married to Flynn, and raising two toddlers.
Flynn had spent years cycling through one failed business scheme after another.
One month he sold online get-rich-quick courses.
Then he wanted an artisanal coffee shop.
