The Day the Vase Shattered

If you’ve ever had your name saved in the family group chat as “Autumn (the Responsible One),” you already know the flavor of my life. I’m the return-your-carts-at-the-grocery-store person. The “I brought extra napkins and a first-aid kit” person. The one who sends thank-you cards for thank-you cards because I was raised by people who ironed dish towels and believed boundaries were for hedges, not humans.

My older sister, Michelle, is… not that person.

Michelle believes kids should be “free-range”—which, in her house, means lawless. She calls it creativity. The rest of us call it chaos with a Pinterest board. She has three boys—Liam (10), Samuel (7), and Noah (5)—and a parenting style that consists of scrolling her phone and saying, “Boys, be yourselves!” as if that absolves them of physics, manners, or gravity.

I used to help her. I really did. After her divorce, I watched the boys so Michelle could “run errands,” which often looked suspiciously like spa appointments and day dates. I told myself I was being a good aunt. I told myself family helps family. Mostly, I told myself I could handle it.

Then came the vase.

It was a Saturday that began like a thousand others—coffee, a sensible to-do list, a quick sweep of the living room because I like my throw blankets folded and my soul at peace. Michelle dropped the boys off at noon with a kiss airmailed to my cheek and a “You’re a lifesaver!” before spinning out of the driveway like a getaway driver. She didn’t so much as pause to hear the words “no ball in the house.”

They arrived with a rubber ball the size of a cantaloupe and twice as mean. “Outside toy,” I said, cheerful, channeling Mary Poppins with better boundaries. “We’ll watch a movie, eat popcorn, and—”

Samuel (middle children have a sixth sense for the fastest route to chaos) lobbed the ball at Liam. Liam, ten and gifted at the sport of ignoring, whipped it back. When I said “No throwing inside,” Liam gave me the particular brand of smirk that lives in the DNA of boys who have rarely met consequences. Noah—sweet-faced and sticky like a baby koala—grabbed a throw pillow and joined the game.

Within minutes, my living room turned into the NFL Combine. The ball arced over my coffee table, skimmed my lamp (a near miss that shaved five years off my life), and then—because pride goeth before physics—Samuel fired at Noah, who missed. The ball skimmed the table again and clipped the lip of my Italian vase—the cream-and-cobalt one I’d brought home in bubble wrap and carried like a newborn through customs.

It toppled with the slow-motion theatricality of doom. It hit the floor and became a sound—shatter, hiss, gasp—like a memory breaking its own heart. Blue shards skated across the hardwood. The room froze.

All three boys stared at the glittering wreckage. Then Liam—ten, old enough to know better and young enough to try not to—shrugged. “Oops,” he said.

Not sorry. Not scared. Oops.

Something in me—something strained and quiet and tired of being the family sponge—snapped. I picked up the remote, turned off the TV, pointed to the couch, and used a voice I didn’t recognize, a voice that had been living under my good manners all these years, weightlifting in secret.

“All three of you sit down. Now.”

They sat. Even Liam sat, eyes wide, which tells you everything you need to know about how rarely I’ve issued orders.

“What are you doing?” Samuel asked, his bravado cracking around the edges.

“I’m setting boundaries in my own house,” I said, heart racing but voice steady. “You broke something I love. In my house, when you break something, you sit quietly and think about what you did wrong. No TV. No throwing. No roaming. Sitting. Until your mom gets here.”

Noah tested the perimeter like a puppy nudging a gate. I pointed at the cushion. “Sit.” He sat.

For three hours, they were statues with fidgets. They squirmed. They sighed. They whispered. But they stayed. I swept ceramic, picked up pieces of a trip I’d saved for one latte at a time, and performed the small funeral you give a thing that was once joy.

At five on the dot, Michelle breezed in with shopping bags and a fresh blowout, smelling like mall and freedom. The boys sprang toward her, talking over one another, painting me as a warden of the worst kind: the kind who turned off the television.

“How dare you treat my children like that,” Michelle said, voice sharp as a bread knife. “You had no right to punish them. They’re just kids, Autumn.”

I gestured to the trash can, where a bouquet of blue shards caught the light like a bad disco ball. “They broke my vase after I told them not to throw the ball inside.”

“It was an accident,” Michelle said, hand on hip, tone on autopilot. “You’re being cruel over a stupid vase.”

Cruel. Over a stupid vase. As if the object was the problem and not the erosion of the concept of no.

“Michelle,” I said, feeling the heat rise in my face, “they destroyed my living room while you were gone. I asked them nicely to stop. They ignored me. You want to tell me what exactly I was supposed to do? Let them finish the job?”

“You were supposed to let them be themselves,” she said, as if she’d delivered an after-school special and earned applause. “This is why kids grow up repressed—because adults can’t handle their creativity.”

I stared at her and saw, for the first time, the shape of our relationship: me, the safety net; her, the trapeze artist who refuses to look down. I could either tear or I could step away.

“Fine,” I said, the word landing like a stamp. “Then I’m not the right person to watch your boys anymore. Find someone else.”

She tugged jackets onto flailing arms, muttering about how impossible I am, how joyless, how I never wanted kids and it shows. She didn’t say goodbye; she slammed my door. The windows vibrated with her exit.

For two weeks after, my house exhaled. I came home to pillows where I left them, a rug without cracker fossils. I watched what I wanted, ate dinner when I wanted, let the quiet be a friend instead of a punishment. And then Saturday rolled around, which in my family means dinner at my parents’—meatloaf and memories and the slow, tired choreography of people in their seventies dealing with toddlers not taught to be guests.

If you’ve never watched your mother—arthritis in her hands, kindness in her bones—wipe spaghetti from her own baseboards while her daughter scrolls Instagram, you might not understand the specific grief that rose in me week after week. Michelle’s boys ate like seagulls—shriek, peck, spill—and Michelle sat in Dad’s recliner, occasionally reminding Facebook she is #blessed.

When I asked her to intervene, she said, “This isn’t your business,” without looking up. My parents—gorgeous people who taught me please and thank you and that you can go a long way on a good apology—shrugged in the way of people outnumbered by the belief that being family means never saying, “Not in this house.”

Every week, after Michelle swept out with her storm, my parents would ask me to stay and help clean, and I always did, because love is a dish rag and a second wind. But love, I realized, could also be a line.

Thanksgiving arrived on the calendar like a migraine. I felt it in my jaw, in my stomach, in the way I no longer tasted my mother’s stuffing because I was too busy counting down the minutes until the next spill. Then an idea came to me, small but sturdy: What if I didn’t go? What if I hosted my own Thanksgiving and curated the guest list like a sane person?

“Mom,” I said, calling on a Wednesday, “I won’t be at your dinner this year. I’m going to host my own celebration.”

Silence. Then, gently: “Autumn, is this about Michelle and the boys?”

I could have lied. I didn’t. “Partly. I want a peaceful holiday for once.”

A sigh that sounded like decades. “I understand, honey. I really do.”

That sound told me everything: my parents were tired, too. They were just too polite to name it.

I texted the rest of the family—Aunt Beverly (stuffing artist), Uncle Gary (wine bringer), Cousin Timothy (flower saver)—and pitched an adults-only Thanksgiving. “More intimate,” I said. “More conversation. No children under fifteen.” The response was a chorus of relief.

“Finally,” Uncle Gary said. “I love kids, but sometimes I want to finish a sentence.”

By Friday, eight adults had RSVP’d yes. It felt like not just reclaiming a holiday but reclaiming what my family is like when we’re not dodging chicken nuggets launched like mortars.

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, while I was stirring cranberry sauce and admiring my tablescape like it had a personality worth dignifying, my phone buzzed. Michelle.

Michelle: Heard from Mom you’re not coming. Why are you celebrating separately?

I debated my degree of honesty and chose brave. Me: I’m hosting a child-free dinner. I want a calm holiday without behavioral issues.

The typing bubble pulsed, vanished, returned, did a full cardio routine. Ten minutes later: Michelle: You’re terrible. You don’t want to see your own nephews on Thanksgiving.

Me: It’s not personal. I want a peaceful celebration without the drama of ill-mannered children.

Read. No reply.

Thanksgiving morning, my house looked like a magazine spread I would absolutely buy. Candles. Good china. A fall centerpiece that made me inhale like a person who believes in ambience. My guests arrived at two, smelling like casseroles and compliments. We poured wine, talked about books, travel, actual adult lives. I felt my shoulders drop an inch.

I had just brought the turkey to the table—bronzed, noble—when the doorbell rang. Everyone was here. Maybe a neighbor? A delivery?

I opened the door and my holiday died a little.

“Surprise!” Michelle chirped, flanked by Liam, Samuel, and Noah, grinning like bandits. They swept past me, a flood in sneakers. Michelle executed a hostile take-over of my hostess chair at the head of the table. “Sorry we’re late!” she sang to my baffled guests.

The boys went feral in thirty seconds. They beelined for the food, bare hands grabbing rolls and stuffing, sat on my living room floor facing the TV, and sloppily baptized the rug in gravy. Samuel found the remote and cranked the volume to “stadium.” Conversation died, choked on a cartoon theme song.

Aunt Beverly’s smile reached its tensile strength. Uncle Gary looked at me like a referee at a knife fight. “Mom’s headache is getting worse,” Cousin Timothy whispered to his mother. “We should go.”

“Oh, don’t leave because of us!” Michelle called, too bright. “The kids are just excited to be here.”

Aunt Dorothy gathered her purse with the grim efficiency of a woman not dying on this hill. The room shifted; the exits began to glow.

I grabbed Michelle by the arm and peeled her out of my chair. “Kitchen. Now.”

Behind the closed door, I hissed, “What the hell are you doing here? I told you this was adults only.”

She widened her eyes into innocence. “The boys really wanted to see you. I thought it would be a nice surprise.”

From the living room: a crash—ominous, expensive. We ran out.

My brand-new 65-inch television—the one I’d saved for with discipline and a relationship with coupons—wore a crack down the middle like a lightning scar. Static flickered. My heart did, too.

“Who did this?” I asked, breath thin.

Silence. The boys looked at everything except me.

Uncle Gary cleared his throat like he was about to officiate a funeral. “Samuel,” he said sadly. “His brother changed the channel. He threw the remote.”

I stared at the $2,000 corpse of my six-week-old TV and felt the kind of calm that comes right before weather anchors say the word warning.

“Michelle,” I said, voice low. “Your son destroyed my television. You owe me $2,000.”

She looked at the crack, then at me, and laughed. Actually laughed. “Are you serious? It was an accident. Kids break things. It’s not that big a deal.”

I have never understood in movies when characters say “Get out” and the room hushes like it respects them. But I said it. “Get out,” I said. “Get your children and get out of my house.”

Something in my tone—something granite, something new—must have registered. Michelle clucked and hustled her boys, who whined but obeyed because even they sensed they were in the presence of a woman who had discovered she had a fuse box and learned to flip her own switches.

At the door, she turned and hurled a parting shot: “This is why no one likes you. You’re mean and selfish and you hate children.”

The door slammed. My house exhaled the kind of silence only broken things make.

Uncle Gary scratched his cheek philosophically. “Well,” he said, “this has been… interesting.”

One by one, my guests made gentle excuses and left with casseroles repacked and hugs I barely felt. Within an hour, the table I’d set for joy looked like a battlefield where joy had lost. I cleaned alone, angrier by the minute. Anger at the audacity. Anger at the assumption. Anger at the way people like Michelle rely on people like me to never say the sentence I had just said.

The next morning, I went to my parents’ house to tell the story before Michelle spun it into something flashy and false. From the tight set of my mother’s mouth and the way my father fiddled with his glasses, I could tell the broadcast had already aired.

“Michelle told us about the TV,” Mom said carefully.

“Did she tell you Samuel threw the remote on purpose? That she laughed when I asked her to pay for it?”

Dad’s eyes begged the room to be easier than it was. “She said it was an accident.”

“It wasn’t. And even if it were, she should pay.”

Mom, soft and practical, played her part. “Autumn, you know Michelle doesn’t have that kind of money lying around. Maybe you could… let it go.”

“Let it go?” I echoed. “It’s $2,000.”

“I know it’s a lot,” she said, the way only parents can, “but family is more important than things.”

I left their kitchen feeling like a person who had been told to hand her spine over for safekeeping. No one was going to hold Michelle accountable. Which meant I would.

That night, staring at the white scar down the middle of my TV, I made a decision. If Michelle wasn’t going to pay me back, I would pay myself. For the next two years, there would be no Christmas or birthday gifts from Aunt Autumn for Michelle or her boys. I usually spend about $300 on each of them every Christmas. That’s $1,200 a year; $2,400 over two years. More than enough to replace the TV and buy myself a little justice.

I didn’t announce it. I just ordered a replacement TV, lit a candle that smelled like resolve, and planned my holiday season like a woman who was finally learning that love is not a synonym for doormat.

A Christmas Without Bows

If Thanksgiving was the day my patience snapped, then Christmas was the day my backbone finally set like concrete.

I’d made my decision in November, right there in the glow of a cracked 65-inch TV. No gifts for Michelle or her boys for the next two years. Not a Lego set, not a Fortnite gift card, not a single Hot Wheels car. I would quietly pay myself back for the $2,000 Samuel obliterated with a remote control tantrum.

It wasn’t spite. Okay, maybe it was a little spite. But mostly it was justice. Consequence. A word Michelle had apparently erased from her parenting dictionary.

Deck the Halls, Dodge the Chaos

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, I felt… lighter. No frantic mall runs. No scrolling Amazon at 2 a.m. wondering if a 10-year-old really needed a $150 Nerf blaster. No sinking feeling that my generosity would be repaid with sticky fingerprints and another broken lamp.

Instead, I bought thoughtful gifts for people who valued them. A watch for Dad. A necklace for Mom she’d been admiring in a shop window. A cookbook for Aunt Beverly, who still insists her cranberry sauce could beat Martha Stewart’s in a cage match.

I wrapped them with gold ribbon and neat corners, placed them under my own tree, and for the first time in years, my living room didn’t feel like a hostage situation.

Christmas Eve Chaos

My plan was simple: drop off Mom and Dad’s gifts on Christmas Eve, avoid the circus, then retreat to my house for a quiet night of old movies and Chinese takeout.

When I walked into my parents’ house, the familiar soundtrack hit me first. Screaming. Running feet. The unmistakable crash of something valuable hitting the floor. Michelle’s three boys were turning the living room into a demolition derby while she sat in Dad’s recliner, thumbs dancing on her phone, face lit by Facebook likes.

Liam yanked ornaments off the Christmas tree like he was harvesting apples. Samuel was mid-bounce on the couch cushions. Noah was crying about… something. Probably everything.

“Hi, honey!” Mom greeted me from the kitchen, flour on her apron. “So glad you came.”

I smiled tightly, handed her the wrapped boxes. “These are for you and Dad.”

But before I could make my escape, the herd arrived.

“Aunt Autumn!” Liam shouted, barreling into the kitchen. “Where are our presents?”

“Yeah!” Samuel echoed. “Where’s mine?”

Noah just extended his hands like I was Santa Claus with same-day delivery.

Behind them, Michelle didn’t even glance up from her phone.

My parents looked at me expectantly, clearly assuming I had more boxes hidden in my trunk.

And that was my cue. The moment I’d been planning for weeks.

I knelt to their level, kept my voice calm, and said, “This year and next year, I won’t be giving you Christmas presents. I’m using that money to pay myself back for the TV you broke at Thanksgiving.”

The Meltdown Heard Round the World

The reaction was cinematic.

Noah immediately collapsed onto the floor, flailing like a fish out of water, shrieking so loudly the ornaments rattled. Samuel sprinted toward Michelle, howling, “Mom! Aunt Autumn says no presents!” Liam froze, his mouth an O of disbelief, as though I’d just announced Christmas had been canceled worldwide.

Michelle stormed into the kitchen, phone finally abandoned. Her face was redder than Santa’s suit.

“You are vindictive and cruel,” she spat. “They’re just children!”

“They’re children who destroyed my property,” I said evenly. “And whose mother laughed when I asked her to take responsibility. Actions have consequences, Michelle. That’s what they’re learning now.”

“You’re punishing innocent kids over a stupid TV!” she shrieked. “What kind of person does that?”

“The kind of person who’s tired of being your doormat.”

Silence, Finally

Michelle turned to our parents, expecting backup. “Are you going to let her talk to me like this?”

For once, Mom and Dad didn’t leap to her defense. They looked uncomfortable, sure. But they said nothing. Maybe, just maybe, they were tired of enabling her, too.

Michelle’s jaw dropped. “Fine! We’re leaving. And don’t expect to see us again.”

She gathered the sobbing boys, stormed out, and slammed the door so hard Mom’s Christmas wreath fell onto the porch.

The silence left behind was deafening.

I hugged my parents, wished them Merry Christmas, and drove home. I ordered sesame chicken, queued up It’s a Wonderful Life, and sat in blissful peace. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like the villain at my own holiday.

It was, ironically, the merriest Christmas Eve I’d ever had.

Michelle’s Social Media Circus

Two days later, while sipping coffee, I made the mistake of opening Facebook.

And there it was.

A photo of my three nephews, red-faced and crying, captioned with Michelle’s venom:

“Some people are so heartless they would deprive their own nephews of Christmas presents. I don’t even consider her my sister anymore. How could anyone be so cruel?”

The comments poured in. Michelle’s friends lined up to vilify me. What a monster. Kids are innocent! How could she? Michelle liked every single insult.

I typed a furious reply—about the TV, the broken vase, the Thanksgiving disaster—but deleted it. Why defend myself to strangers when everyone who mattered already knew the truth?

Instead, I sent Michelle a private message:

Me: Since you no longer consider me your sister, I guess I’ll stop paying your rent. After all, why would I pay $800 a month for someone who’s not my family?

Within seconds, she read it. My phone lit up like Times Square.

Michelle called twelve times in a row. I ignored every one. Then the texts started:

Autumn, please don’t do this.
I didn’t mean what I said.
The kids need a place to live.

An hour later, her Facebook post disappeared. Gone. Like it had never happened.

Then came her final text: Please don’t stop paying rent. I can’t afford the apartment without your help.

I didn’t reply.

Two Months Later

I didn’t cut off the rent. I’m not heartless. I wasn’t going to make my nephews homeless because their mother couldn’t manage a budget or a boundary. But I also didn’t speak to Michelle. Not a word.

I started visiting my parents on quiet weeknights when Michelle wasn’t there. No chaos, no meltdowns. Just coffee, conversation, and my mother finally finishing a story without being drowned out by screaming.

Then one evening, Mom said something that stopped me mid-sip.

“You know,” she began carefully, “Michelle’s been working on the boys’ behavior lately.”

Dad nodded. “It’s like night and day. They sat through dinner last Saturday without throwing food. She even made them clean up after themselves.”

Mom gave me a small smile. “Maybe your boundaries taught her something.”

Maybe.

But I wasn’t ready to believe in miracles just yet.

Love Is Not Enabling

Here’s what I know now: love isn’t about folding yourself into a pretzel to keep everyone else comfortable. Love isn’t about replacing broken TVs and pretending accidents excuse everything. Love isn’t enabling chaos because you’re afraid of being called cruel.

Sometimes love means saying no. Sometimes love means letting the chips—and the ornaments and the remote controls—fall where they may.

I don’t know if Michelle and I will ever repair what’s broken between us. Maybe one day, maybe not. But I do know I’ll never go back to being the sister who swallowed her frustration just to keep the peace.

Because peace without respect isn’t peace at all. It’s surrender.

And I’m done surrendering.

Consequences Are Expensive

Two months of silence from Michelle felt like stepping out of a crowded subway car into fresh air. I didn’t realize how much noise she brought with her—both literal (three boys acting like a demolition crew) and emotional (her constant demands that I bend, bend, bend).

But quiet doesn’t mean over. Not in families. It just means the next round is loading.

Saturday Dinner 2.0

By February, I’d gotten used to visiting Mom and Dad on Wednesday evenings instead of the traditional Saturday dinners. Those Saturday nights had turned into loud free-for-alls hosted by Michelle and her boys. My parents still went through with them, of course. For them, “tradition” is sacred, even if it means mashed potatoes on the ceiling.

One Wednesday, Mom surprised me.

“You know,” she said, handing me a cup of coffee, “the boys have actually been… better.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Better like ‘didn’t set the drapes on fire’ better, or actually better?”

Dad chuckled. “They sat through an entire meal last weekend. Michelle even made them clear their plates.”

“Miracles do happen,” I muttered.

Mom leaned across the table. “Maybe you holding your ground finally got through to her.”

I wanted to believe that. But I also knew Michelle. She was the queen of temporary reform. Whenever consequences closed in, she straightened up just long enough to avoid disaster—then went back to business as usual.

The Phone Call

It was mid-March when Michelle finally called me. My phone lit up with her name, and for a full minute I debated answering. Then curiosity won.

“Hello?”

Her voice was sugary-sweet, the kind she used when she wanted something. “Autumn! It’s been forever. How are you?”

“Fine,” I said flatly.

“We should catch up,” she chirped. “Maybe you could come over Saturday. The boys would love to see you.”

I nearly laughed. “You mean the same boys who shattered my vase, trashed Thanksgiving, and turned my $2,000 TV into modern art?”

There was a pause. “They’re just kids, Autumn. But they’re learning.”

“Learning what?” I asked. “That Aunt Autumn is a doormat?”

Silence. Then: “You’re not still mad about the TV, are you?”

That’s when I said it. The line that made her regret everything:

“Michelle, I’ve decided I’ll keep paying your rent—but only if you start paying me back for the TV. A hundred dollars a month until it’s covered.”

Her gasp was theatrical enough to earn an Oscar. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, I’m serious. Actions have consequences, remember?”

Facebook Round Two

That night, Michelle ran back to her favorite battlefield: Facebook.

Another post appeared.

“Imagine having a sister who extorts you over a television. Family is supposed to help each other, not demand money like a loan shark. I’m heartbroken.”

This time, though, something different happened.

Instead of strangers chiming in, our extended relatives—who’d all witnessed Thanksgiving’s implosion—began commenting.

Uncle Gary: Didn’t your boys destroy that TV on purpose?
Aunt Beverly: Maybe teaching them respect would be cheaper than replacing electronics.
Even Grandma (who almost never comments): Autumn has been more patient than most. Perhaps accountability is overdue.

For once, Michelle’s allies were thin. She quietly deleted the post within the hour.

Easter Without Drama

April brought Easter, another holiday ripe for Michelle-style chaos. But I stuck to my boundaries.

I hosted a small brunch—croissants, ham, real cloth napkins—and again made it adults-only. My cousins loved it. My parents came and looked like they’d been rescued from a battlefield.

When Michelle realized she wasn’t invited, she sent me a three-word text: You’re unbelievable, Autumn.

I didn’t respond.

Cracks in the Armor

By summer, word had gotten around that I was done cleaning up Michelle’s messes. At a Fourth of July barbecue, even her own kids had started parroting the word “consequences.”

When Samuel tried to throw a firecracker in the pool, Liam stopped him. “Don’t! Aunt Autumn says we’ll have to pay if we break something.”

I wasn’t even there—but my name had become shorthand for rules. That was a reputation I could live with.

Michelle’s “Apology”

It wasn’t until late August that Michelle finally showed up at my door. No warning, just her and three sheepish boys standing on my porch.

The kids looked nervous, as though she’d prepped them in the car. “Say it,” she hissed.

Samuel mumbled, “Sorry we broke your TV.”
Noah whispered, “Sorry for the vase.”
Liam, ever the leader, added, “We’ll try to behave better.”

I looked at Michelle. “And you?”

She sighed. “I shouldn’t have laughed about the TV. Or… about the other stuff.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“Apology accepted,” I said. “But the rule stands. You’re paying me back. A hundred a month.”

Her face pinched like I’d suggested a prison sentence. But she nodded. “Fine.”

The Transfer

The first $100 landed in my account that September. For once, Michelle didn’t complain. Maybe because she knew I was dead serious this time. Maybe because, deep down, she realized I’d been right all along.

By December, she’d paid $400 back. Still a long way to go, but progress.

And here’s the kicker: her kids really did start improving. When you grow up watching your mom finally face consequences, it turns out you learn to behave differently too.

At Christmas dinner that year, they actually sat through the meal. No ornaments stolen, no couches jumped on, no food fights. It was like watching a different family.

The Clear Ending

I’ll be honest—I don’t know if Michelle and I will ever be “close” again. Too much damage has been done, too many slammed doors and Facebook rants. But I do know this: she regrets the way she laughed at me that day. Because it cost her money, reputation, and the one thing she hates most—losing control of the narrative.

And me? I learned that sometimes the most loving thing you can say is the one word Michelle never expected to hear from me: No.

Boundaries don’t destroy families. They protect the parts worth keeping.

And if it took a shattered vase, a ruined Thanksgiving, and a $2,000 TV to finally teach my sister that, well—consider it money well spent.

✨ The End ✨