“But if you help me now,” she said, voice trembling, “in two years I’ll give you back two-forty. You could buy an even better house.”
I stared at her. Then, embarrassingly, I laughed.
Not because it was funny. Because the absurdity of it short-circuited something in my brain. Clara had already failed twice. Twice my parents had cleaned up the wreckage while she moved on to the next idea like consequences were for other people. Now she was asking me to gamble my entire future on printed graphs and optimism.
“Clara,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “you’ve already failed at business twice. Maybe it’s time to stop with the schemes and get a regular job like the rest of us.”
The explosion was immediate.
Clara’s chair scraped back hard enough to squeal on the wood floor. She burst into tears—loud, dramatic, full-body sobs—and ran from the room like we were teenagers again and I’d stolen her favorite sweater.
Michael glared at me like I’d kicked a puppy.
“You’re heartless,” he snapped, and followed her.
I waited for my parents to say something reasonable. Something parental. Something like, Lara’s allowed to say no.