I called. Straight to voicemail.
I texted: “Did you take my stuff?” Silence.
The next morning, I drove straight to our mom’s place—where Darren had been crashing. She greeted me at the door with a smile like nothing was wrong.
“You here for Darren?” she asked, her voice light.
“No. I’m here to talk to him.”
There he was. Sprawled on the couch, remote in hand, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Where’s my stuff?” I asked.
He didn’t even flinch. “I pawned it. Chill—I’ll get it back when I’m working again.”
I stared at him, stunned.
“You spent the money I gave you—and then stole from me?”
His response? “You live alone. No kids. You can afford it.”
I turned to Mom, expecting her to say something. Anything.
“He just needs a little time,” she said gently. “You know he’s been through a lot.”
That was the moment it hit me: this wasn’t love. This wasn’t compassion.
It was enabling.
The Line I Had to Draw:
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