They say no good deed goes unpunished. In my case, letting my stepsister use my spare apartment out of kindness led to the most calculated act of revenge I’ve ever planned. The betrayal I discovered made my blood boil, but what happened next? That’s where things get interesting.
I’ve always been the responsible one. While others my age were partying through their 20s, I was climbing the corporate ladder at a financial consulting firm, putting in 60-hour weeks and saving every penny.
By 30, I had my own condo in a nice part of town, a decent retirement account, and the respect of my colleagues. Nothing was handed to me. I earned it all through hard work and determination.
My grandparents taught me that.
“Morgan,” my grandmother used to say, “in this world, you get what you work for. No shortcuts.”
They lived by those words, and when they passed away three years ago, they left me their cozy one-bedroom apartment across town as part of their legacy.
A living room | Source: Midjourney
It was an average apartment, and since I already had my own apartment, I kept it as a quiet retreat and an occasional rental property. It was more like a physical reminder of their values.
If only my stepsister Sierra had learned those same values.
Sierra came into my life when I was 16 and she was 14, after my dad remarried following my mother’s death. From day one, she was the opposite of everything I stood for.
A young girl | Source: Midjourney
While I studied, she schemed. When I worked late, she posted poolside selfies. Her life was a constant parade of get-rich-quick schemes.
Essential oils one month, cryptocurrency “coaching” the next, followed by a failed beauty vlog and at least three different meal replacement shake businesses.
“You need to loosen up, Morgan,” she’d tell me at family gatherings. “Life’s too short to be so boring. You should join my new business venture. We could be millionaires by next year!”
The venture in question was always doomed to fail and usually involved recruiting other people to lose money too.
Despite our differences, I never wished her ill. She was family (technically), and I hoped someday she’d grow up and find her path.
Maybe that’s why I answered her call that rainy Tuesday evening eight months ago, even though seeing her name on my caller ID made me sigh.
Morgan?” Her voice cracked, heavy with tears. “I don’t know what to do. Everything’s falling apart.”
I sat up straighter in my office chair, genuinely concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“My roommate bailed without paying her half of the rent. I’m three months behind on credit card payments. My landlord left an eviction notice today.” Her words tumbled out between sobs. “I’ve been trying to make it work, but I’m drowning here.”
“They said I need to figure it out myself this time. That I’m almost 30 and need to stand on my own feet.” More sobbing. “Please, Morgan. Just for a few months. I know you have that apartment. I swear, I’ll treat it like it’s yours. I just need to get back on my feet.”
I hesitated. Sierra had never been reliable. Never followed through. Never seemed to appreciate anything done for her.
- But then I remembered sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table as she made sandwiches for the homeless shelter. “Sometimes people need a hand up, not a handout,” she’d explained. “You give them dignity by giving them a chance.”
