I’ve worked hard for everything I have.
Not the kind of “hard” people post about online with gym selfies or motivational quotes. No—real hard work. The kind where you take night shifts that stretch into the next day. The kind where you skip meals just to pay for one more month of Photoshop. The kind where you’re washing socks in a bathroom sink because going to the laundromat costs too much.
Yeah. That kind of hard.
Every single dollar I earned in my twenties went into building my freelance design career. I started with whatever came my way—band posters, odd jobs, logo work that barely paid anything. I worked on a second-hand tablet from a pawn shop that glitched every other hour. Sometimes I got paid, sometimes I didn’t.
But I never stopped.
Then I finally caught a break. A real contract. And with it, I made the biggest investment of my life: a 1TB iPad Pro. Over $2,000. To most people, it was just a tablet. But to me? It was everything. My office, my design studio, my client meetings, my paycheck—all inside that one screen.
That iPad helped me go from a shoebox apartment to a place with actual sunlight. It helped me build a career, a reputation, a future.
So when I saw it lying shattered on my parents’ living room floor during a family visit, something inside me snapped.
It was supposed to be a peaceful holiday. Just a few days at home with my family before the new year. The night before, I stayed up late working on a pitch. I carefully left my iPad charging in Dad’s study—high up, out of reach, away from little hands.
But when I woke up the next morning, dreaming about a mug of cinnamon coffee, I walked into the living room… and froze.
There it was. My iPad.
Lying face down on the hardwood floor. The screen smashed like a spiderweb. The protective glass? Gone. The case? Ripped off and tossed aside like it was wrapping paper.
And Josie—my sister—was sitting on the couch, calm as ever, sipping coffee from a mug that said “Best Mom Ever.”
I’d bought that mug. For our mom. Two years ago.
“Jo, what is this?” I asked, pointing at the broken pieces of my life.
“Oh, yep,” she said, like it was no big deal. “The kids broke your iPad. But chill, Tyler. Dad’s got an old Samsung. Still runs YouTube and maybe some other stuff. You’ll be fine.”
I stared at her. Not a single trace of guilt in her voice.
“How did they even get it?” I asked. “It was in the study. Way out of reach.”
“I gave it to them,” she shrugged. “They wanted to watch cartoons. Don’t be dramatic. You can afford a better one. Don’t act like you can’t—you have a good job.”
I blinked. “That was a $2,000 tool for work, Josie.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re loaded, Tyler. What’s the big deal?”
My jaw tightened. My temples pulsed. Maddie and Matt, her kids, were sitting nearby, flipping through TV channels like nothing had happened. They didn’t even say good morning.
I walked into Dad’s study. The door was wide open. My charger hung from the desk, still plugged in.
I came back out and asked her, “Why would you take something that doesn’t belong to you?”
“They were crying,” she said. “Throwing tantrums. I wanted to watch my movie in peace. You were napping. You weren’t even using it.”
My voice rose. “So you gave my $2,000 tablet to your kids, and now it’s broken? And you think I’m being dramatic?”
She looked irritated. “Relax! You’re their uncle. What, you can’t share with your niece and nephew? What’s wrong with you?”
My hands started shaking. I didn’t trust myself to say anything more. So I walked out and locked myself in the guest bathroom.
I breathed.
Josie has always been like this. Entitled. Reckless. Manipulative. She’s the type who cries about not having money for diapers, so I send her cash—and then she disappears. A week later? Photos at a luxury spa, glass of champagne in hand, captioned: “Deserve a little peace.”
No mention of me, of course.
She’s made a career out of emotional blackmail. If it’s not rent, it’s her car. If it’s not the car, it’s the kids. And every time, she assumes I’ll fix it.
Because I always have.
I’ve been the “nice” brother. The one who says “It’s fine” when it’s not. The one who cleans up her messes so Mom doesn’t cry and Dad doesn’t have to deal.
But this time… I couldn’t.
Not when she handed my lifeline to her kids like a toy. Not when she laughed as it shattered.
After lunch, while the kids were napping and everyone else was half-asleep watching football, I found her alone.
She was curled on the couch, scrolling through her phone, a bowl of popcorn next to her.
I sat down across from her. She didn’t even look up.
“You owe me $2,200,” I said. Calm. Clear.
She laughed. A little laugh, like I’d told a dumb joke. “Tyler, come on,” she said. “It’s not that serious. Just buy another one.”
“I’m not kidding,” I said.
“Oh my God. Are you really going to lose your mind over a tablet?” she groaned.
“This isn’t about a tablet,” I said. “This is about you not taking responsibility. Again.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ugh, forget it. You’re being so extra.”
“No, Josie,” I leaned forward. “You’re their parent. You and Duncan. Figure it out. I want the full amount. I don’t care if it comes from you or your ex. That’s not my problem.”
Her face twisted. “Wow. You’re unbelievable. Family’s supposed to forgive, Tyler. You’re supposed to love your niece and nephew like they’re your own.”
I didn’t blink. “Family means not lying about being broke after buying a new SUV last month, Josie.”
Her mouth opened—but nothing came out. Then she stormed off, slamming the patio door behind her like a teenager.
I left that night.
I hugged Mom. I thanked Dad. I hugged the kids, too. As much as they’d broken it, they were just doing what kids do. It was their mom who’d let them.
I didn’t say goodbye to Josie.
The next morning, I filed with small claims court.
Two days later, my phone rang. Josie.
She was screaming.
“How dare you do this, Tyler?!”
“Hi, Jo,” I said calmly.
“Are you actually SUING me?! Over my kids? Your own family?!”
“No, Jo,” I said. “I’m suing someone who refuses to take responsibility.”
And I hung up.
Later that week, I had coffee with Mom. She looked… worn out. She told me Josie had cried in the kitchen after I left. Said I’d embarrassed her. Said I treated her like a stranger.
But Mom didn’t defend her this time. Not really. She just looked tired. Like she was finally starting to see it, too.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t need to.
I didn’t expect Josie to pay. I figured she’d drag it out for months, stall, argue, play the victim.
But one week later, my phone buzzed.
A direct deposit: $2,200.
Full amount. One shot. Just like that.
Guess she had the money all along.
She just assumed I’d let it slide. Like always.
But this time, I didn’t.
The new iPad came two days later. I unboxed it slowly, peeling the plastic, snapping on a new case, reinstalling my apps. It didn’t feel like a luxury.
It felt like dignity. Like drawing a line and saying: This far. No further.
I didn’t carry her mistake. I made her own it.
She didn’t speak to me for a while. Honestly? That silence felt like peace.
But then, a month later, she sent a photo.
Maddie and Matt at the dining table, surrounded by crayons and coloring books. No screens in sight. The caption said:
“No screens today. Only crayons and crayons only!”
Under it, a message:
“I didn’t think you’d really do it, Tyler. I thought I could guilt you again. Maybe you were right. Maybe I needed to be held accountable.”
Not an apology. But maybe the beginning of something better.
I didn’t reply. But I didn’t block her either.
Because sometimes, the only way to show people how valuable something is… is to let them break it.
And then send them the bill.
While you enjoy a slice of carrot cake and move on.
