Chapter 1: The ATM Sister

Whenever he runs out of cash, my younger brother always calls me—his tone sharp and entitled. My phone buzzes, and before I even answer, I can feel my jaw clench.

The first time I got one of those calls, it was late—past 10 p.m.—and I was standing in my cramped Savannah apartment, microwaving instant mac and cheese, bleary-eyed after a twelve-hour day. He didn’t even bother with a hello, just: “Yo, can you spot me fifty? I’m outta groceries.” The way he said it, you’d think I was his personal ATM, not his big sister. Even now, every time my phone lights up with his name, I brace for impact, like a tornado warning flashing across the screen.

I used to think he was just spoiled by Mom, until I stumbled across a post online.

What To Do If Your Real Mom Won’t Give You Money

Attached was a screenshot—of our texts.

I was instantly creeped out. My hands went clammy. I actually checked the locks on my apartment door, like someone might be watching.

My thumb hovered over the screen. For a moment, I wondered if maybe I’d lost it—maybe some deepfake bot had scraped my messages. But no, there it was: my words, timestamped, his requests, word for word. The whole thing felt like one of those out-of-body moments, where reality gets fuzzy around the edges and you can’t decide if you’re in a bad dream or just the punchline to some cosmic joke.

I never expected that a sixteen-year age gap could actually make him think I was his mother.

"I’m broke. Send me some money."

When I got this text from my brother, I’d just finished up at the office for the day in downtown Savannah.

I’d spent all afternoon wrangling a marketing deck that just wouldn’t come together, so by the time I saw his message, my nerves were already frayed. The sky outside my window was that sticky Georgia blue, the humidity seeping through every crack, and I could feel the weight of his words settle on my shoulders like a wet towel. Sometimes I wished he’d just call Mom, but I guess big sisters are easier targets.

Work was already stressful enough, and seeing his message just made me even more annoyed.

I could practically feel the eye twitch starting up—the one that shows up when my inbox pings after 6 p.m. It was like a reflex: see his name, feel my stomach tighten. The walk to the parking lot suddenly felt longer, like his demands sucked the air right out of the room.

I was about to Venmo him the money out of habit, but then I frowned and scrolled up through our conversation.

The muscle memory was there—open the app, punch in the amount, send. But this time, something stopped me. I thumbed back through our messages, watching the requests pile up like receipts from a bad week.

Only then did I realize that in less than half a month, this was already the third time he’d asked me for money.

The dates glared at me: two weeks ago, last week, and now today. I hadn’t even had time to forget the last transfer before the next one came rolling in.

The previous two times were both for fifty bucks. After I sent him the money, he didn’t even bother to say thanks.

I remembered it clear as day—the notification, then radio silence. Not even a half-assed emoji. Just pure expectation, like I owed him and that was that. It stung, not because of the money, but the entitlement behind it.

I was instantly furious and shot back: "You’ve already asked me for money three times this month. Go ask Mom instead."

My thumb hovered over the send button for a second, then I hit it—hard. For a split second, I pictured him as a kid, bowl cut and missing teeth, before I shoved the image away. Maybe my tone was a little sharp, but I’d had enough. There was a kind of relief in finally saying it, even if I knew he’d probably just shrug it off or roll his eyes behind his phone screen.

Right after sending it, I put his number on Do Not Disturb.

It felt oddly satisfying, the way the little crescent moon icon popped up next to his name. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t have to brace for another guilt trip popping up during dinner or on my commute. I tossed my phone on the passenger seat and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Ever since I started college, my brother has been asking me for money every few days.

It started slow—just lunch money here, a little for books there—but once I got my first internship, the floodgates opened. I became the default piggy bank. Maybe that’s just how it goes when you’re the older sibling, but sometimes it felt less like family and more like a subscription service I never signed up for.

Sometimes he’d say it was for a computer class, sometimes for a Spanish elective, other times he’d claim he wanted to sign up for an SAT prep course.

He always had a new excuse—always an urgent reason, some class he had to take, some project he couldn’t finish without a new app or book. If I pushed back, he’d just pivot, like he was testing which angle would get the fastest payout. I almost admired the creativity, if I wasn’t so annoyed.

I went through college myself, so I knew he was full of it, but I still sent him money from time to time.

I remembered scraping by on ramen and gas station coffee, making five bucks stretch until Friday. Maybe that’s why I kept giving in—because I knew how hard it could get. Still, I never asked anyone for handouts unless it was really bad, and even then, I always said thank you. My brother? Not so much.

After all, just living off what Mom gives you in college isn’t enough for groceries, let alone having any fun.

I remembered my own college days, budgeting every dollar, making spreadsheets to track bills. Mom helped where she could, but I picked up side gigs—dog-walking, tutoring, anything to keep my head above water. I figured my brother was in the same boat, but the difference was, he never seemed interested in paddling.

But I didn’t expect him to ask for money so often, and every time he did, it was as if I owed him something. It really made me uncomfortable.

Every request was so casual, like it was my duty. It was the lack of gratitude that got under my skin—the assumption that because I’m older, I’d just handle it. The kind of expectation that made me want to change my number and move to Canada.

I was about to vent to my best friend when a push notification popped up on my phone.

I pulled into the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, the smell of waffle fries and sweet tea filling my car, ready to call Maddie and rant, but then my phone lit up: some random online forum notification, buzzing insistently.

What To Do If Your Real Mom Won’t Give You Money

After so many years online, I knew it was probably clickbait, but I couldn’t help clicking in.

Usually I’d swipe away something like that—more of those viral threads with wild family drama—but the title was just too on the nose. I tapped in, expecting to cringe-laugh and scroll away, but what I saw next had me frozen in my seat, fries going cold.

The first page of the post was just the title as an image.

Big, bold font. Black on white. Like it was daring anyone to click. I took a breath, swiped to the next page, and nearly dropped my phone.

I flipped to the next page—and was instantly stunned.

My stomach did a slow, sour roll as the page loaded. I recognized the screenshot before I even read the text. My name, my words. It was surreal—like finding your diary pinned to the bulletin board in the student union.

The first chat record was from the last time I sent my brother money.

Left: "Venmo me $50."

Left: "Don’t blow it all at once."

I remembered typing those exact words, trying to sound stern but not mean. Now, here they were, on display for the internet to pick apart.

The next two lines were from just now.

Right: "I’m broke. Send me some money."

Left: "You’ve already asked me for money three times this month. Go ask Mom and Dad."

It was like looking in a mirror and seeing yourself from someone else’s perspective—a little warped, a little too real. I felt exposed.

Aren’t these my texts with my brother?

I scrolled back and forth, double-checking. Yep, even my typo was there. My heart thudded in my chest, a weird mix of anger and embarrassment. I wondered how many strangers had already seen this, how many more would.

My finger trembled as I scrolled down to read his post:

"Unbelievable. Is your mom like this too? After bugging her forever, she only gives me $50. How is that enough for a month? Over a decade ago she had her fun, now she just acts like I don’t exist. Is this what a real mom is? Geez."

My jaw literally dropped. He really thought I was his mother? I let out a short, bitter laugh. The way he twisted the story, making himself the tragic lead and me the villain—it would’ve been funny if it weren’t so infuriating.

I was instantly furious.

I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears. I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, the urge to throw my phone out the window almost overpowering. My brother had always had a flair for the dramatic, but this was a whole new level.

When did I become his mom? Doesn’t he already have one?

I pictured our real mom—hair always pulled back in a messy bun, fussing over coupons and Sunday dinner—absolutely oblivious to the fact that her own son was posting this nonsense online. The whole thing was so absurd, I almost started laughing again. But behind the laughter, my chest ached—how did we end up here?

And the language he used was so crass and foul, nothing like the polite brother my parents always brag about.

He’d always been careful around the grown-ups, playing the good kid. Seeing him let loose like this—swearing, blaming, painting himself as some hard-luck case—made me wonder if I even knew him at all. It stung in a way I wasn’t ready for.

The comments below were all over the place.

[What can a college kid do with $50 a month? Can’t even get takeout.]

[Apply for financial aid, get a part-time job, stop asking her for money. And if she gets sick in the future, don’t give her a dime.]

[No way, OP, I saw your last post too. The so-called real mom is just your older sister. Do you have proof she’s really your mom?]

It was like watching a train wreck in real time. Everyone had an opinion, and most of them were ready to roast him alive or turn it into a meme. I almost felt bad—almost.

My brother didn’t reply to most of the comments, but he did reply to this one.

"I already have enough evidence to prove she’s my real mom. She got knocked up by some bleach-blond guy, he bailed, and she was afraid of ruining her reputation, so she gave me to her parents to raise and made me call her sister. If you can’t afford to have kids, don’t have them."

My brother had always had an imagination, but this was soap-opera level stuff. The idea of me, a teen mom with a scandalous past, handing him off to my parents so I could save face—it was almost impressive how detailed his story got. If I didn’t know better, I might’ve started doubting myself too.

Reading this post, I was so angry I actually laughed.

There’s a kind of laughter that comes out when you’re so mad you can’t even speak. That was me, in my car, fries untouched, just wheezing. The absurdity of it all—my own brother spinning a whole alternate universe for internet clout—was almost too much to process.

Nineteen years ago, I personally watched my mom go into labor and give birth to my brother at St. Luke’s Hospital.

I remembered sitting in that cold waiting room, clutching a stuffed bear for him, feet swinging off the plastic chair. Mom’s purse was stuffed with butterscotch candies, her laugh echoing down the hospital hallway. The nurse came out, beaming, and told us he was healthy and perfect. There was no bleach-blond stranger, no cover-up. Just family, just us. The memory was as clear as the day it happened.

If I weren’t so sure of myself, I’d almost start doubting my own memory—did I really give birth to a child?

It was wild, the way the internet could take something simple and twist it into a carnival of rumors. I scrolled back up, rereading my brother’s words, trying to find the kid I once helped learn to ride a bike, but all I saw was a stranger’s fiction.