I’m Mia, a designer who fought for every win. When my sister’s kids destroyed my $2,200 iPad, my work lifeline, she laughed it off. Her entitlement pushed me to stand firm, teaching her accountability and showing me the power of setting boundaries.
My 20s were a grind—sleepless nights, tight budgets, and scrubbing laundry by hand to fund my freelance design work. I started with a shaky tablet, scraping by on small gigs. A major contract let me buy a $2,200 iPad Pro, my creative hub that landed big jobs and a better home. At a family holiday at my parents’, I worked late, leaving my iPad charging in Dad’s study, locked away from my sister Lily’s kids. Morning came, and I found it smashed on the living room floor, screen shattered, case discarded. Lily sat with coffee in Mom’s special mug. “What’s this?” I asked. “The kids broke it,” she said lightly. “Dad’s got an old tablet. You’ll manage.”
Her nonchalance hit hard. “It was locked away,” I said. “How’d they get it?” Lily shrugged. “I grabbed it for cartoons. You’re loaded, Mia. Get a new one.” I said, “It’s $2,200, my career.” She scoffed. “Big deal.” Her kids, Emma and Noah, ignored me, glued to the TV. The study door was ajar, my charger askew. “You took my property,” I said. Lily sighed. “They were fussy. You were asleep. Don’t be stingy.” I was furious but stepped away, calming down in the guest room. Lily’s always been careless—borrowing cash for “bills,” then posting beach selfies. I’d covered for her, kept quiet. Not now.
After lunch, with the kids asleep, I faced Lily, who was on her phone. “You owe me $2,200,” I said. She chuckled. “Mia, really? It’s a tablet.” I stood firm. “It’s about responsibility. You and your ex pay up.” Her face soured. “Family lets things go,” she snapped. I replied, “Family doesn’t hide a new SUV while claiming poverty.” She stormed outside, slamming the door. I left, thanking Mom and Dad, skipping Lily. I filed in small claims court. Lily called, raging. “Suing me over kids?” I said, “Suing someone who won’t take blame.” A week later, $2,200 arrived. She’d had the money all along.
Lily’s “Family is forgiving” stuck with me. Was I too harsh? I recalled her scams—rent money for trips, loans I paid, parties I planned. I’d enabled her. My new iPad was a symbol of strength. Lily went quiet, then sent a picture of her kids drawing, no screens, saying, “Maybe you were right.” It wasn’t sorry, but a shift. I didn’t answer, but kept the door open. Teaching respect means showing the cost, then enjoying coffee while life moves on.
