Six months after I landed in Melbourne, the first default notice arrived in my inbox. As the registered lienholder, I received copies of everything Julian ignored. Missed payments on the townhouse. An unpaid tax bill on the duplex. Two hard-money loans against the lake house at interest rates that would make a loan shark blush. I read each notice with my morning coffee, filed it in a folder labeled FAMILY, and went to work. I never called. I never warned him. I just watched.

By October, the cracks were public. The Porsche disappeared from Julian’s photos. The lake house parties stopped. A cousin messaged me that Dad’s construction company had lost two contracts and that Julian had “borrowed” from the business account to cover something he wouldn’t name. Mom’s social media went quiet, no more crown emojis. I felt nothing I am ashamed of. You cannot burn a bridge and then complain about the smoke. They had handed everything to the son who carried the name. Let the name carry it back.

Then, on Thanksgiving morning, my phone rang. Mom’s voice was warm, casual, as if the dining table and the deeds had never happened. “Sweetheart, happy Thanksgiving. Listen, your brother is going through a rough patch. Wire him $25,000. He needs help. Family helps family.” I looked out at the Melbourne sun and smiled. “Ask him what happened to those three houses first,” I said. A pause. Then, very quietly: “Talia. What did you do?” So I told her.