The app that almost got funded.
The crypto that almost boomed.
The startup that almost had a buyer.
He was thirty-three and had never held a real job.
Always living off Margaret’s dwindling retirement and his own inflated sense of impending greatness.
My mother enabled it all.
She saw Andrew’s failures as near misses, and my success as luck.
In her eyes, the scales were unbalanced.
My stability wasn’t something I had earned.
It was something I had.
And what I had, she believed, I should give to Andrew—because he needed it more.
This dynamic defined our lives.
When my grandparents got sick, I was the one who managed their care, paid their bills, held their hands.
Andrew was too busy with a critical launch phase.
My mother was too emotional to handle the details.
When they passed and the will was read, I was as shocked as anyone.
They had left me everything.
The house.
The land.
The accounts.
And the crushing mountain of debt they had hidden from everyone.
The farmhouse was a five-million-dollar property on paper, but in reality, it was a five-hundred-thousand-dollar liability.
My mother and brother, hearing about the debts, signed their waivers with breathtaking speed.
“You’re the appraiser, Hannah,”
Andrew had said, clapping me on the shoulder.
“You figure it out.”
And I did.
I liquidated my assets.
I worked with the banks.
I spent every weekend for eight months driving out to the property, hauling debris, managing contractors.
I saved it.
It was mine.
Now, as I recovered from the flu, a cold, clear-headed rage replaced the fever.
Andrew’s new venture was his most audacious yet.
He wanted the five-million-dollar asset.
He convinced our mother to help him take it.
He even found a co-conspirator.
This Mr. Peters.
I had to know who he was.
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