Larissa’s first voicemail demanded that I “fix the card before everyone arrived.” The second blamed the bank. By the sixth, Preston was asking why his overdraft protection had disappeared too. I called him back and explained calmly that nothing was broken. The accounts were mine, the card had always been mine, and the financial help I had provided for three years had ended. If thirty guests were coming, they could divide the grocery bill themselves. Suddenly, Larissa’s enormous Christmas celebration became much less exciting.
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