When my sister and her husband first came to me for help, there was no hesitation, no calculation, no internal debate. They sat at my kitchen table looking worn down by life—dark circles under their eyes, hands fidgeting with worry, voices trembling as they explained how close they were to losing everything. Bills piling up, unexpected repairs, late fees doubling overnight, jobs offering barely enough hours to keep them afloat. They weren’t dramatic about it; they were scared. And I loved them enough to want to take that fear off their shoulders.
So I said yes. I transferred the $25,000 the same day. I didn’t need a contract or a signature. They were family. I believed in them. They promised they’d pay me back as soon as they were stable. I told them not to rush. In that moment, helping them felt like the only right thing to do.
But time has a way of revealing people in ways emotion doesn’t allow you to see at first.
At first, they were thankful. They checked in often. They updated me on their progress. They reassured me they hadn’t forgotten. But slowly, their tone changed. Calls became shorter. Updates became vague. Their gratitude softened into something less like appreciation and more like entitlement. As the months turned into a year, and then two, I realized I was always the one bringing the loan up—not to demand anything, just to understand when I could expect repayment.
Every conversation danced around the subject. They minimized. They delayed. They hid behind cheerful excuses. It amazed me how quickly a sincere promise could become an inconvenience people avoid.
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