Chapter 3 - The Golden Child’s Demands
I let the phone ring four times before sliding the green icon across the glass. I didn't say hello. I just put the phone against my ear and waited.
“What the hell is your problem, man?”
Garrett didn't bother with pleasantries. His voice was loud, arrogant, and laced with that specific brand of indignation that only spoiled younger brothers possess.
“Good morning to you too, Garrett,” I said smoothly.
“Mom is hysterical! She’s sitting in her kitchen crying her eyes out because the refrigerator is beeping and the air conditioning just shut down! What kind of sick, twisted game are you playing?”
“I’m not playing a game,” I said. “I’m balancing my budget. You see, when a man realizes he’s subsidizing someone else's lavish inheritance, he tends to cut unnecessary expenditures.”
“Subsidizing? Are you out of your mind?” Garrett barked. “You make six figures at the engineering firm! You have a townhouse in North Hills! You drive a company truck! Why are you nickel-and-diming Mom over a couple of light bulbs and some water?”
“Because those light bulbs and water cost eleven thousand dollars a year, Garrett. For seven years. Do the math. That’s almost eighty thousand dollars. That’s eighty thousand dollars of my savings that went directly into preserving the house that you are going to inherit.”
“That’s different!” Garrett argued, his voice cracking with exasperation. “Dad wanted me to have the family house! You always had Dad’s practical mind, Craig. You could build things, fix things, work corporate. I have an artistic temperament! Mom knows how hard the creative industry is!”
“Artistic temperament?” I couldn't help but chuckle. It was a dry, hollow sound. “You sell wholesale electronic vape accessories out of a rented warehouse, Garrett. The only art involved is how you manage to convince Mom to give you money every month.”
“Don't you talk about my business like that!” he snarled. “Listen to me, Craig. You are going to log into your little computer right now, pay the past-due balance of four hundred and twelve dollars on the electric company website, and get Mom’s power turned back on. Presley and I bought dry-aged ribeyes for dinner tonight. If those steaks spoil in Mom’s fridge, you’re paying for them too.”
I took a deep, steadying breath. Years ago, that threat would have worked. Years ago, I would have apologized, scrambled to smooth things over, and swallowed my dignity just to keep the peace at Thanksgiving.
Not today.
“Garrett,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “Do you have four hundred and twelve dollars?”
“What?”
“Do you have four hundred and twelve dollars in your checking account?”
“Of course I do! That’s not the point—”
“Then open your banking app, type in the account number on Mom’s utility bill, and pay it yourself.”
“I’m not paying Mom’s bills!” Garrett shouted, losing his composure completely. “That’s your job! That has always been your job! You’re the responsible one! If I start paying her electric bill, next thing you know she’s going to ask me for the car insurance, and the lawn care, and—”
He stopped abruptly, realizing he had just laid bare the exact dynamic he had been profiting from for over a decade.
“Go on,” I whispered into the phone. “Finish the sentence, Garrett.”
“You know what I meant,” he muttered, his tone shifting from outrage to uneasy defensiveness. “You’re just doing this to spite me because of the will. You’re jealous. You’ve always been jealous of me because Mom loved me more.”
The words were meant to cut me. They were designed to reopen old childhood wounds, to make me feel small and unloved, the way Mom had made me feel every time she handed Garrett the bigger slice of cake, the newer bicycle, the college tuition she never saved for me.
Instead, hearing him say it out loud felt like a key turning in a rusted lock. The cage door swung open.
“If she loves you four hundred thousand dollars more,” I said calmly, “then she won't mind asking you for four hundred dollars. Enjoy your ribeyes in the dark, little brother.”
I hung up.
I immediately went into my contacts, found Garrett’s number, and blocked it. Then I opened my banking app, pulled up the secondary debit card I had left linked to Mom's account for emergencies, and deactivated it permanently.
At five-fifteen that evening, when I pulled my truck into the driveway of my home, Sloan was waiting by the front porch. She was holding two glasses of iced tea and a folder of bank statements.
“How was your day at the office?” she asked, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
“Eventful,” I said, kissing her forehead. “Garrett called.”
“Did he offer to pay?”
May you like
“He offered to let me pay for his spoiled steaks.”
Sloan laughed, handing me a glass. “Well, you’d better brace yourself, honey. Because about twenty minutes ago, Mom's silver Buick pulled into the neighborhood. She’s circling the cul-de-sac right now.”
