The morning light filtered softly through my apartment windows as I sat with my coffee, planning what to do with my newfound freedom. After fifteen years of running “Bloom & Blossom,” I’d finally sold the flower shop I’d built from scratch. It had been bittersweet—my first real accomplishment, born from my grandmother’s small inheritance—but I was ready for a new chapter. For the first time in years, I had options. I could travel, study, or start fresh.
Then my phone rang.
“Ivy?” my sister Lisa said, her voice tight. “Can I come over?”
Twenty minutes later, she sat at my kitchen table, hands trembling around a mug of untouched tea. “We’re in trouble,” she whispered. Rick’s construction business had been failing for months, and now they were three months behind on their mortgage—with credit cards and loans piling up.
“We could lose the house.”
My heart sank. Lisa had always looked to me in moments like this. When she finally asked for help—twenty-five thousand dollars, nearly half of what I’d earned from selling my shop—I felt the weight of the decision settle over me.
But she was my sister.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll help.”
