I Ate Ramen For Years To Pay My Sister’s Rent While She Secretly Owned A Bmw. I Exposed Her At Her Own Birthday Party And Now She’s Homeless. Am I The Jerk For Finally Choosing My Peace?

Severing Ties

The next morning, I called in sick to work because I couldn’t face pretending everything was normal. My boss answered and I told her I had a family emergency, which wasn’t even a lie. Aunt Helen made breakfast and we sat at her kitchen table making a practical plan for how I could separate myself from Victoria financially.

She had a notepad and wrote things down while we talked. First step was stopping the automatic rent transfer. Second was closing the shared household account we’d set up. Third was getting my name off any bills that had both our names. The list kept growing, and I felt sick looking at how tangled up our lives had become.

I checked my bank account on my phone and saw the rent payment was due in five days. I’d been automatically transferring my half plus Victoria’s half every month just like clockwork because she said her job didn’t pay enough. But now I was wondering if that was even true or just another lie. The numbers on my screen showed how much money I’d been sending her month after month, and I wanted to throw my phone across the room.

Aunt Helen suggested I look at Victoria’s social media to see what she’d actually been spending money on. I felt sick doing it, but I opened the apps anyway. Posts about expensive brunches with her friends, new designer bags she’d bought, weekend trips with Brad to places I couldn’t afford to go. Photos of her wearing clothes that cost more than my rent. Pictures of fancy restaurants and cocktails and shopping bags. All of it posted while I’d been eating ramen and peanut butter sandwiches to make sure I could afford to send her that rent money.

The dates on the post lined up with times she’d told me she was struggling financially, that she needed my help. I scrolled back through months of posts, and every single one made me feel more stupid for believing her.

My phone started buzzing with calls from Victoria. I let them all go to voicemail. By the time I checked, there were 17 missed calls and dozens of texts. The first few texts said: “Sorry, said she didn’t mean it, said we should talk.”

Then they got angry. She said I was being dramatic, that Aunt Helen didn’t understand our relationship, that everyone vents to their friends and I was making a big deal out of nothing. The texts kept coming, and I watched them appear on my screen without responding to any of them. She said her friends were drunk and encouraged her to say mean things. She said I always overreacted to everything. She said I needed to stop being so sensitive and just come home so we could talk about this like adults.

I turned my phone face down on the table and left it there.

Moving Out

I waited until Tuesday morning when I knew Victoria would be at her office downtown. The apartment key felt heavy in my hand as I unlocked the door and stepped inside. Everything looked the same but felt completely different now. The couch we’d picked out together at that furniture store last year sat against the wall with the throw pillows I’d sewn by hand. The bookshelf held books we’d both read and discussed over wine on Friday nights—except those conversations were probably just Victoria killing time while waiting for her real friends to be available.

My stomach twisted looking at the framed photos on the wall. Pictures of us at the beach last summer where we’d laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe. I’d thought those moments meant something.

I grabbed my suitcase from the closet and started throwing clothes inside without folding them. My hands moved fast, pulling shirts and pants and underwear from drawers, shoving shoes into bags. I needed to get out before Victoria came home early or before I started crying again.

The important documents were in the filing cabinet we shared, organized alphabetically because Victoria insisted on a system. My birth certificate, social security card, passport, all the paperwork from when our parents died. I took everything with my name on it and left the rest.

In the bathroom, I grabbed my toothbrush and the expensive face cream Aunt Helen gave me for Christmas. Victoria’s makeup covered most of the counter—all those products she bought while I was sending her rent money. The anger felt good. Better than the hurt.

There was a note on the kitchen counter written on the back of a takeout receipt in Victoria’s perfect handwriting. The paper was slightly crumpled like she’d written it fast or maybe thrown it down hard. I picked it up and read the words that somehow made everything worse and clearer at the same time. Not sorry, not acknowledgement of what she’d said in front of everyone, just concern about money and calling me childish for having feelings about being publicly humiliated.

I folded the note and put it in my pocket as evidence. Proof that I wasn’t crazy for feeling used. This was who Victoria actually was when nobody was performing for her or giving her what she wanted. The apartment suddenly felt smaller like the walls were closing in. I grabbed my bags and walked out without looking back, leaving my key on the counter next to where her note had been.