One week after that New Year’s dinner, I was sitting on the sagging couch in my tiny Seattle apartment when my phone started going insane. At first, it was just one call from my mom, then another, then three back-to-back from Mom’s cell. I let them all go to voicemail.
Thirty seconds later, my brother’s name flashed on the screen. Then again. Then again. While it buzzed in my hand, my email notifications exploded with new messages from the bank. Subject lines like urgent notice, account changes, statement available lit up my laptop screen.
I finally answered one of my mom’s calls, and all I heard was panicked breathing and her voice up in that hysterical register she usually only saves for when something threatens her image.
“Jenna, what did you do?” she shouted. “Do you have any idea what is happening? The cabin is gone. Do you understand me? Gone. There are strangers at Lake Chin saying they’re the new owners. They have paperwork with your name all over it.”
Then she jumped to the next crisis without even taking a breath. “The bank says some of our accounts are closed. The joint ones. The ones you were on. The auto payments bounced. There are fees. Your father is furious. What have you done to us?”
In the background, I could hear my dad, Martin, barking something I couldn’t quite make out, and my mom yelling back that she was trying to fix it. I didn’t answer right away. I let her words hang there while I stared out at the gray Seattle sky and the rain sliding down the window.
Another call started buzzing in. This time, my brother Ryan. I hung up on my mom and watched his name pulse on the screen. When I didn’t pick up, he switched to text—long angry paragraphs popping up one after another.
You tanked my credit score. Do you even realize what that does to my clients? You sabotaged my summer plans, our family trips, everything. How could you be this selfish?
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