Leo, my five-year-old son, sat on the rug by the window, carefully stacking wooden blocks. Each time Mark’s voice rose, Leo’s hands trembled, the tower wobbling under his small fingers. He didn’t look up. He was pretending not to hear.
He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair, jaw tightening.
I knew what he hadn’t finished saying. History doesn’t stop loan sharks.
Mark wasn’t trying to sell the cabin because he wanted to “diversify the family portfolio,” as he’d told his parents. He was selling because he was drowning. Gambling had swallowed him whole — poker rooms, sports bets, borrowed money layered on borrowed money. This cabin was the last solid thing he could grab onto before he went under.
My sister, Jessica, sat silently at the kitchen table, tears slipping down her cheeks. She knew. She was terrified — of the debt, of Mark, of what would happen if this didn’t work. Her eyes pleaded with me to give in, to sign, to make it stop.
“We’re the majority,” Mark said sharply, turning on me. “Jessica wants to sell. I want to sell. You’re the minority. You fall in line.”
“That’s not how the deed works,” I replied, ice creeping into my voice. “It requires unanimous consent. You don’t have mine.”Continue reading…
