“Apologize to my daughter or you’re out of our home,” my sister said, one hand on her hip and the other on the back of a dining chair with a faded little American flag magnet stuck to it, like patriotism could hold the whole mess together. Kayla’s iced tea sweated a ring onto the table beside a pile of Amazon boxes. Sinatra’s voice floated from the TV in the living room, crooning about flying to the moon while my fourteen‑year‑old niece glared at me over an almost‑brand‑new iPhone 15.
“I wanted the latest model, not this cheap one,” she yelled, and then she threw the phone at my face. It hit harder than I expected, bounced off my jacket, clattered to the hardwood, and a hairline crack zigzagged across the screen protector like a tiny lightning strike. My parents just smirked like we’d reached the best part of the show.
I didn’t argue. I picked up the cracked phone, set it gently back on the table next to the flag magnet, and said, very quietly, “Okay. Noted.”
My name’s Mark.
I’m thirty‑two, the older brother, the steady one. I’m the guy who files everyone’s taxes “just this once.” The one who gets the 2 a.m. calls because the Wi‑Fi mysteriously died, who remembers birthdays and deposits and shows up on time with folding chairs nobody else thought about.
I write code for a living. I meal prep on Sundays. I pay my bills early because late fees make my eye twitch.
People call me boring in the same tone they call me dependable, like both are the same mild insult. I live ten minutes from my parents’ house. My sister Tasha lives with them “temporarily,” which has somehow lasted three years.
Her daughter, my niece Kayla, is fourteen now, taller than me, always glued to a screen. My parents like to say, “We all pitch in.” Somehow that has always meant my bank account. That Sunday night I’d stopped by with a carton of eggs and a new smoke detector because Dad had been “meaning to get around to it.” I walked into a full‑volume family debate around the dining table—Amazon boxes, takeout containers, and charger cables everywhere.
The TV in the next room streamed an endless unboxing channel. Kayla sat at the end of the table, pout loaded and ready, scrolling her phone. Tasha clocked me first and exhaled like she’d just spotted her Uber.
“Perfect. Mark’s here.”
Mom smiled without looking up from her tablet. Dad didn’t.
He only smiles at baseball and discount gas. Kayla shoved a shiny phone at me, palms up like an offering. iPhone 15, purple case, plastic sticker still on the camera lens.
“It’s the wrong one,” she said flatly, like a judge delivering a sentence. I squinted. “That is the latest model.”
“It’s not Pro Max,” she shot back.
“Do you even listen?”
The room paused like a play waiting for its next line. I set the eggs on the counter. Tasha folded her arms across her sweatshirt.
“You’re the one who said you’d help set her up,” she said. “You said you’d handle the tech stuff. So handle it.”
I glanced at the receipt on the table.
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