I’ve always been the reliable one.
The sister who shows up. The sister who says yes before the question is even finished.
Maybe that’s my flaw—mistaking unconditional love for an open door.

Three months ago, I was ordered to stop.
Doctor’s orders—no driving, no lifting, no work for at least a month after my surgery.
So there I was, grounded, my Honda parked silently in the driveway like a loyal guard dog with nowhere to go.

Then came the call.

Kathy’s voice cracked through the line like glass breaking.
“Becky… my car’s dead. Transmission. Three grand to fix. I’m broke. Please—please—can I borrow yours? Just until mine’s ready.”

I hesitated only long enough to glance out at my car, the one thing keeping me tethered to independence. Then I caved.
“Of course. Just… take care of her. She’s my baby.”
Kathy swore on Mom’s grave she would.

The next month passed quietly. She used the car daily, even took me to my check-ups. She laughed once, adjusting my mirrors without asking.
“Win-win, right? You help me, I help you.”
I told myself it was fine. Family helps family. Right?

By the fourth week, her car was fixed and my interview at Morrison & Associates—the opportunity I’d been chasing for months—was tomorrow.
When she dropped my keys on the counter that night, relief flooded me.
“Thanks, little sis,” she beamed. “You literally saved my life.”

The next morning
The sun was bright. My best blazer was pressed. My resume—perfect.
I slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key…

A slow, cold dread trickled down my spine.
Again. Nothing.

I called Kathy, heart pounding.
“Oh… yeah,” she said casually, “there’s no gas. Figured you’d handle that part.”

“Kathy. My interview’s in an hour.”

“Oh, right. Call an Uber. Problem solved.”
And she hung up.

By the time the ride arrived, I was thirty minutes late. The receptionist’s polite smile was a door slamming shut.
“Ms. Morrison has moved forward with other candidates.”
I stood in that lobby, portfolio useless in my hands, and felt my future evaporate.

Dad listened in silence that afternoon. His jaw was tight.
“She needs to understand,” he said. “Invite her for dinner.”

That evening, Kathy breezed in with daisies, smiling like nothing had happened.
We sat down, the smell of pot roast filling the room. Dad carved in silence before fixing her with a look.

“Your sister lent you her car for a month, Kathy. She missed a career-changing interview because you couldn’t put $5 in the tank.”

Kathy stammered excuses, but Dad had receipts.
“Instagram says you could afford dinner out Tuesday. Fill her tank tonight. Pay back every dollar.”

She slammed the gas can back in my trunk later, muttering.
The next day, she dropped an envelope of crumpled bills at my door.

“You really turned Dad against me over gas money?” she snapped.

“No,” I said quietly. “You did that yourself.”

I used that cash for another interview. Got the job. Started the next Monday.
Kathy and I barely speak now. Maybe that’s sad. Or maybe it’s the price of finally learning my own worth.

Here’s what I know now:
Kindness is priceless—but not free. And anyone who forgets that will learn exactly what it costs.