Growing up, Josh was always the one they protected. If he skipped class, the teachers were blamed. If he broke something, I was told to be understanding. When I achieved something, it was “expected.” When he achieved something, it was celebrated. I had always swallowed that bitter taste and moved on. But this time, the bite was sharper. Then came the final straw. My parents sat me down and asked me to give Josh access to my bank account. My money. My security. My future. For a moment, I couldn’t even breathe. I quietly agreed, but inside I was screaming.
