When I reached the second-floor landing, I could hear music playing softly from inside the apartment. Jazz. Mark loved jazz. I didn’t knock. I reached out, turned the handle, and pushed the door open. It wasn’t locked. The apartment was warm and smelled like cinnamon and expensive cologne.

The living room was decorated beautifully, far nicer than our own home. And there, sitting on a plush velvet sofa, with a glass of red wine in her hand and her legs draped over my husband’s lap, was my sister. Mark was gently rubbing her feet, laughing at something she had just said.

They both froze as the door bumped against the wall. The silence in the room was absolute, deafening, and suffocating. Elena’s face drained of all color, her wine glass tilting precariously. Mark dropped her feet and scrambled to stand up, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish.

“Sarah…” he finally choked out, his voice cracking. I stood in the doorway, looking at the life he had built with my own sister on my dime. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just reached into my pocket, pulled out the crumpled check for twelve dollars and fourteen cents, and let it flutter to the hardwood floor.

“You overpaid your electric bill,” I said, my voice dead and hollow. I turned around, walked down the stairs, and never stepped foot in our house on Oakdale again.