It was a Thursday when my brother Lukas stole my debit card. I had no idea when I woke up that morning at my parents’ house in Heidelberg, slipped on my blue scrubs, and rushed to my shift at the hospital. I worked as a respiratory therapist, and that week had been relentless—double shifts, too many patients, hardly any sleep. When I got home that evening after 9:00, my feet ached, my head was pounding, and I had exactly one plan: shower, heat up some leftovers, and collapse into bed.
Instead, I saw my suitcase standing right next to the front door.
At first, I thought my mother had tidied up and taken it out of the hallway closet. Then I realized it was packed. My clothes were neatly folded inside. My laptop charger had been stuffed into a side pocket. My toiletries were sealed in a plastic bag. This wasn’t packing. This was being thrown out. Laughter drifted from the kitchen. My older brother Lukas was sitting at the table with my parents, drinking beer from one of my father’s glass mugs as if there were something to celebrate. My mother noticed me first and smiled in a way that made my stomach clench.
“Oh, you’re already home,” she said casually. “Why is my suitcase by the door?”
Lukas leaned back in his chair, relaxed and smug, as if he were already savoring a victory. “Your work here is done,” he said. “We got what we wanted. Don’t look back at us now.” I stared at him. “What are you talking about?” Father actually chuckled. “Don’t act so clueless.” Then Lukas pulled my debit card out of his pocket and flicked it onto the table. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. “You stole my card?” “Borrowed it,” he said. “And emptied the account.” I lunged for it, but he was faster and pinched it down with the palm of his hand. “Stay calm. It’s family money anyway.” “No, it isn’t.” Mom chuckled softly, as if I were a child throwing a tantrum. “It was a smart decision. You hoarded money while living under this roof.” The room seemed to grow icy cold. “How much did you take?” Lukas shrugged nonchalantly. “Everything.” With trembling hands, I grabbed my phone, opened my banking app, and felt the blood drain from my face. Savings account: €0.43. Checking account: €12.11. The transaction history showed withdrawal after withdrawal at two ATMs on the other side of town. Then a transfer. He’d siphoned off almost €38,000. “That was my money for my master’s,” I whispered. Lukas stood up. He was taller than me, broader, and he knew it. “Not anymore.” “Give it back.” “No.” Dad also stood up and folded his arms. “You lived here for almost two years. Bills, food, utilities. Your mother and I decided that this evened things out.” “Evened things out?” My voice broke. “You never asked me for rent.”
