When Tyler’s most important work tool is ruined during a family gathering, he’s forced to face years of ignored boundaries and quiet frustration. What starts with a broken screen turns into a moment of truth… because sometimes, the only way to move forward is by finally saying no. I’ve put in real effort for everything I own now.
Not the kind you post with gym pics or motivational quotes. I’m talking about the kind of hard work that leaves you tired to the bone. Night shifts that stretched into daylight, skipping meals to pay for another month of Photoshop, washing clothes in the sink because laundromats were too pricey.
I’ve worked hard, no doubt about that. Every dollar I made in my twenties went into building my freelance design job. Band flyers, random gigs, cheap logo jobs.
I used an old tablet I got from a pawn shop. It barely worked, and the screen was terrible. Sometimes I got paid.
Sometimes I didn’t. But I kept going. When I finally landed a decent contract, I made one huge purchase: a 1TB iPad Pro.
It cost me over two grand. To others, it looked like just another gadget. But for me, it was everything—my studio, my meetings, my deadlines.
That tablet helped me land bigger deals. Those deals helped me move out of that tiny apartment into something better. It gave me a fresh start.
So when I saw it smashed on the floor in my parents’ living room, I felt something inside me break too. We were all home for the holidays—just a few days of family time before the new year. I’d stayed up late the night before finishing a project and left my iPad charging in Dad’s office, out of reach.
The next morning, I shuffled into the living room, half-asleep and craving coffee—only to stop in my tracks. There it was. Lying face-down on the hardwood floor.
The screen was cracked like a spiderweb, the protector completely gone. Its case had been tossed aside like torn wrapping paper. My sister Josie sat on the couch, sipping from a mug that said Best Mom Ever—the one I gave Mom two Christmases ago.
“Jo, what’s this?” I asked, pointing at the wrecked iPad. “Oh, yeah,” she said, barely reacting. “The kids broke it.
Chill, Tyler. Dad has some old Samsung you can use. It works for YouTube.
You’ll manage.”
I blinked. No apology. No guilt in her voice.
Nothing. “How did they even get it?” I asked. “It wasn’t out where they could grab it.”
“I gave it to them,” she shrugged.
“They wanted to watch cartoons. Don’t be dramatic. You can buy a better one.
You’ve got a solid job.”
“That was a $2,000 tool for work, Josie,” I said slowly, hoping she’d understand. “You’re doing fine, Tyler. Why are you acting like it’s the end of the world?”
I didn’t say anything.
My jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Maddie and Matt were sitting on the floor, flipping through channels. They didn’t even look up or say hi.
Just like their mom. I went to check the study. Sure enough, the door was open, and the charger was hanging from the desk.
“You took something that wasn’t yours,” I told her. “They were fussing,” she said. “I needed a break.
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