When my younger brother Darren lost his job, I didn’t hesitate to help. That’s what family does, right? I wired him $3,000 to cover rent, groceries, and give him a little breathing room. Two weeks later, I was scrolling through Instagram and saw his girlfriend Rita posing with designer handbags and tagging upscale steakhouses. My stomach twisted.
I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe someone else paid for those things. Maybe it wasn’t his doing. But then I got home—and my TV was gone.
It wasn’t just the TV. My gaming console, two pairs of sneakers, and my emergency cash stash were missing too.
Only one person had a key to my apartment: Darren.
I called him. No answer. I texted: “Did you take my stuff? Call me.” Nothing. That night, I barely slept. I kept repeating the same question—he wouldn’t, would he?
The next morning, I drove to our mom’s place, where Darren had been staying. She greeted me casually, like everything was normal.
“You here to pick up Darren?” she asked cheerfully.
“No. I need to talk to him.”
Darren was lounging in the living room like nothing had happened. I didn’t sit down.
“Where’s my stuff?”
Without a blink, he shrugged. “Relax. I was gonna tell you—I pawned it.”
I stared at him. “You what?”
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