After her divorce, my sister Rhea moved in “just until she saved more.” Months later, I came home to find my living room transformed—my grandma’s coffee table gone, family photos replaced with junk art. She’d sold my things, claiming she was “refreshing the space.”
Days later, strangers were touring my house. Rhea had listed it online as a rental. When I checked my accounts, she’d also stolen nearly $5,000 and my personal documents. I reported her.
Weeks passed before an envelope arrived—her note and a check for $8,000. She’d sold one of those paintings, now worth something, and was starting over in Edinburgh.
I put my home back together. Still angry, but oddly relieved. A month later came another envelope—a photo of her smiling outside a bookstore, with the words: “I’m working on it.”
Sometimes family breaks your trust. But sometimes, they find their way back—and that has to be enough.
