Meanwhile, my younger sister Marissa, who was 26, lived in another state.
She showed up for Christmas and Dad’s birthday—that was it. Every time I called her for help, she’d reply, “Liza, I have my own life. I can’t just drop everything.”
When Dad passed, I wasn’t surprised by the will—something Marissa was able to drop everything to attend.
He left me the bulk of his savings, not millions, but enough for Jasper’s heart surgeries and maybe to save for a house.
Marissa got Dad’s restored Mustang, a few family heirlooms, and jewelry, but no money. Our mom received the house and a modest sum to live on.
He wrote a note with the will. In his shaky handwriting, he said he wanted to repay me for the care and love I had given him.
It didn’t feel like repayment. It felt like a final hug.
Marissa, though, was furious.
A few months later, she got engaged to Brent, a man who looked like he belonged in a cologne ad and spent like he was allergic to saving. The wedding they were planning was obscene.
They wanted a private destination resort, couture dress, fireworks, over 200 guests, an open bar, and a live jazz band flown in.
Then it happened. She called me one Sunday afternoon.Continue reading…
