After I said no, my entitled brother sent his kids in a taxi to my former address, not realizing I had already moved. The new tenant made a quick phone call that set off consequences my brother never saw coming and I watched everything unravel.

“You’re their aunt,” he shot back.

“And you’re their father,” I replied evenly. “No, Jason. Figure something else out.”

He cycled through every tactic—guilt, irritation, bargaining. When none of it worked, he ended the call with a clipped “Fine.”

A month earlier, I’d moved to a new apartment and deliberately didn’t share the address with him. Not out of spite—out of self-preservation. Whenever Jason knew where I lived, my place became his emergency backup plan.

Saturday at 1:17 p.m., my phone rang from an unfamiliar number.

“Is this Emily Carter?” a man asked.
“Yes.”

“My name is Marcus Hill. Two children were dropped at my house in a taxi. They said you live here and you’re supposed to watch them.”

My heart slammed.

“What address?” I asked.

He read my old duplex address—the one Jason still had.

“I don’t live there anymore,” I said. “I moved.”