My Sister Stole My Bmw For Her “Influencer Image” While I Took A Taxi To Family Dinner. Grandpa Saw Me Pull Up In A Cab And Reassigned The Family Trust Fund To Me. Aita For Letting Them Go Broke?
The Fog Thickened
The fog thickened. Charges hit my card I didn’t make. $249 for a promoted post package, “Family Growth.” $119 for “Influencer Boost.” $87 here, $63 there. My business card was linked to a family marketing account Bri set up.
When I confronted her, she blinked. “The brand has to grow.”
“What brand?” I asked. “The brand is me painting until my shoulders hurt.”
“Don’t be selfish,” Mom cut in from the doorway. “Your sister’s bringing eyes to your little shop. That’s priceless.”
I started tracking everything. A spreadsheet at 2:00 a.m., breath fogging in the cold garage because the space heater kept tripping the breaker. Line by line: mortgage transfers, ad charges, gas for a car I didn’t have, gifted inventory for reach, refunded custom orders Bri promised on my behalf because “we need to be generous for audience trust.”
I added it twice because I didn’t believe it the first time.
The family chat is called “Hearth and Home,” which is funnier if you like paying. Mom announced Thanksgiving plans: “Everyone contributes $300 for catering. Bri can’t; she’s investing in content. Wade will cover for her. He also owes us for the car insurance.”
I typed and erased ten responses. Finally, I wrote: “I’ve covered a lot. I need the BMW back. Also please stop using my card.”
Mom replied instantly: “Ungrateful. Your grandpa gave that car to our family. We decide what’s best.”
Bri dropped a heart on Mom’s message and a selfie captioned “On the grind.” Dad sent a thumbs up emoji, the universal sign for “I don’t want to be here.”
That week, my bank pinged: overdraft. My shop rent auto-debit hit after another ad charge cleared. I slept on the workshop floor that night because going home felt like losing ground. I listened to the office clock tick and made promises to the ceiling.
This is the last time I carry everyone. I will say something. I will.
The Spreadsheet
Two days later: Grandpa’s table. Roasted chicken, soft rolls, peas with butter that tastes like childhood. He passed the peas.
“So,” he said, like asking the weather. “The car.”
Mom jumped in. “Dad, don’t make this a thing.”
Grandpa smiled in a way that didn’t move his eyes. “I’m just asking for the story.”
Bri stirred her water with a straw. “It’s simple. I’m using it more.”
Grandpa looked at me. “And you, son? Do you agree it’s simple?”
The only word that came out was small but solid. “No.”
It didn’t fix anything, but it changed me.
The next morning, Mom added me to a new chat called “Holiday Strategy.” It had color-coded cells and percentages that looked like a ransom note. Mom: Family booth this year. Bri films. We produce. Dad manages logistics. Profit split: 60% Bri (marketing), 20% Family Fund (house bills), 20% Wade (materials).
I stared until the numbers blurred. There it was: theft dressed as teamwork. Me: No. My booth. My products. I’ll pay for help. I’m not giving 80% away.
Mom: We raised you. Bri also needs the Square Reader. I connected my account so payouts hit my wallet quickly. Easier for everyone.
Easier for everyone except me. I didn’t argue in paragraphs. I opened a new tab and started a list titled “Everything I’ve Paid For.” It was longer than I could hold in my head. The total sat there like a dare. And that’s when the ground shifted under my feet, and I realized I could either be the bank or the business. I couldn’t be both.
I called Grandpa. “I need advice,” I said. My voice sounded borrowed.
“Come over,” he said. No questions.
He already had a yellow legal pad on the table when I arrived. He nudged a pen toward me. “Tell me what you owe and what they owe you,” he said.
I opened my laptop and showed him the spreadsheet. Mortgage transfers. Utilities. Just-until-tax-time. Ad packages I never approved. Gas. Insurance I didn’t use. Inventory gifted to influencers who never tagged us. Refunds Bri issued without asking because “we need goodwill.”
He listened without interrupting, just making a single tick for every $100, methodical as a metronome. When I finished, he looked at the page and then at me.
“You’ve been subsidizing their lifestyle,” he said. “They’re calling it love to make it go down smooth.”
Something in me unclenched because he named it, and because he didn’t use fancy words. He said theft without saying theft. He poured coffee.
“Okay,” he said. “Here’s what we do.”
