The roof kept leaking, Carl kept ignoring it, and I was dragging out the ladder when the doorbell rang. I wasn’t ready to see my brother, Evan—especially not with hollow eyes and a desperate request.
He confessed his landscaping business was failing and begged me for help. One hundred fifty thousand dollars. Money Carl and I had saved for our daughter’s future. Against my better judgment, I transferred it—because he was my little brother.
A week later, over coffee with a friend, I saw him smiling in a photo—arm around a woman in red, a diamond ring glittering on her hand. My brother’s “rescue money” had bought her a fairy tale.
When I confronted him, he broke. He admitted he’d been blinded by love, spending everything to keep her. But when we followed her one night, we watched her accept another man’s proposal, slipping easily into someone else’s promise.
Evan sat in silence, heartbroken and hollow. I told him I didn’t care about the money. I came for my brother. Because sometimes, the real repair isn’t patching a roof—it’s helping someone wake up before they drown.