De leesbevestigingen stapelden zich op. Stilte. Een diepe digitale stilte die drie uur duurde. Toen een antwoord. Niet van mama. Van Carter.
Limited space this year, Isa. We’re tight on room. Be good, and maybe Christmas.
Be good. Like I was a pet. Like I wasn’t the 28-year-old woman paying for the data plan he had used to send that message.
I didn’t text back. I called Mom. It rang twice.
“Hello?” It wasn’t my mother. It was my Uncle Ron, his voice thick. “Hold on, everybody. Quiet down! It’s the budget police! The IRS is calling!”
A roar of laughter. I recognized Aunt Patrice’s cackle. My blood ran cold. Budget police. So that’s what I was.
Mom finally came on the line. “Isa, what is it? We’re busy.”
“Mom, I saw the group chat. What’s going on with Thanksgiving?”
“Oh, that.” A heavy sigh. “Isa, don’t make this a thing. Carter’s new girlfriend is coming. We’re packed.”
“So, I’m just not invited?” My voice was small. I hated it.
“Stop being so dramatic!” she snapped. “God, you always do this. We’ll see you at Christmas, if you stop acting like this.”
“Acting like what?” The smallness was gone. “Acting like the person who pays for the lights in that room? Like the person who pays for the internet you’re all using?”
“Oh, here we go!” Uncle Ron yelled. “She’s pulling the money card!”
“Isa,” Mom said, her voice a warning. “You offered to help. Family helps family. Don’t you dare hold that over our heads. It’s ugly.”
“It’s ugly that I pay for your internet, but I’m not allowed at your table?” I countered. “If I’m the budget police, then I guess I should do my job. Stop using my credit card for the autopay. All of it.”
A pause. The first time I had ever heard them silent. The party noise died.
“What did you say?” Mom’s voice was a low hiss.
“You heard me. If I’m not family enough for a plate of turkey, I’m not family enough to fund the party. Take my card off the accounts. I’m done.”
A sharp click. She hung up on me.
One second later, the screen lit up. A new message from Mom.
You’re banned from Thanksgiving, idiot.
I looked at the text. I looked back at my spreadsheet. Column F. Row 2 through 7.
This wasn’t just a threat. It was a financial projection. I, Isa Thomas, was reallocating my assets.
But this wasn’t just about autopay. This was about the rot beneath.
The real rot started when I applied for my first car loan. The loan officer frowned. “Miss Thomas, there’s a flag here. Can you explain this account with Brookidge Builder Supply? A balance of $2,300, in collections.”
I went cold. “I’ve never been to a hardware store.”
He turned the screen. My name. My social security number.
I called Mom from the parking lot. “Oh, that,” she laughed. “Don’t be dramatic, Isa. Your father needed a new table saw. We couldn’t get approved, and your credit was just sitting there.”
“You used my social security number to open a line of credit without my permission?”
“Isa, stop making a big deal,” she snapped. “You’re part of this family, aren’t you?”
