I hadn’t even called anyone and already knew how I would be treated.
I would be told I was overreacting.
I would be labelled as the bitter sister.
The woman who saw everything in life as dollar signs.
Because in my family, Clara would create the chaos; and everybody would wonder how I had allowed it to happen. My name is Alejandra Vargas and I was 29 years old when all this happened. I work in IT at a mid-sized company and run a digital consulting business. I built the business late at night, on weekends, and with no recognition for the hard work, discipline, and sacrifice that went into the business. However, my family continues to benefit greatly from my business.From the time I was young, I was viewed as the “responsible one.”
Or, if I received high school diplomas with a 4.0 GPA, my dad would say “This is what I expect from you.” Whereas if Clara barely passed a class, they would buy her a birthday cake saying “She tried so hard.”
Or, even though I saved money to buy a used computer, Clara was given $600 to buy a new laptop because “she’s creative and needed these tools to be able to create.”
Or, Clara broke something, it was assumed that somebody else had left it in the wrong place.
Or, Clara lied and it was said that it was because Clara was anxious.
Or, when Clara borrowed money from them, it was stated that it was because Clara’s life was not fair to her.
But, I should understand.
I should have the maturity to not let my sister feel guilty.
This was my life.
Everyone else took care of Clara’s problems.
So, when Clara showed up at my apartment two months ago, she was crying and appeared terrified like she was escaping from a war zone.
“I need just one night to get back on my feet,” she said to me with a strong hug. “Please believe me, I just need one night.”
She brought two large suitcases, three large shopping bags, and Paola was waiting for her outside of my building in a car like a getaway driver.
The next day, Clara asked if I had any oat milk in my apartment.
On the third day, Clara was using my towels.
By the end of the week, she had all my passwords for my streaming apps.
On the fourth day of her stay, she said the guest room was now “my room.”
By the end of the second month, she knew when I went to sleep, where I kept my wallet, and which drawer I would never think my own sister would open.
I called the bank at 4:00 a.m.
The bank representative spoke to me in a calm, measured voice and asked me questions I was not required to answer.
“No, I am not traveling.”No, I had not authorized the charges.
Yes, the card was in my home on the night before I went to bed.
Yes, I had a suspicion of who may have taken it.
“Will you want the name of the person listed on the report?” he asked.
I stared into Clara’s vacant bedroom.
“Yes,” I replied. “That name is Clara Vargas.”
Stating it did not make me feel mean.
It made me feel alert.
At 8:17 my dad called.
I did not answer.
He called again.
Again.
On the fourth call, I answered and switched to speaker mode because I did not trust myself to hold the phone steady.
“Alejandra,” he said with annoyance. “Why would Clara be telling your mother that you are bothering her from the airport?”
I let out a single, flat, misguided laugh.
“I haven’t called her.”
“She said that you are doing something weird.”
“She has stolen my card.”
He was silent.
Not surprise.
Calculating.
“Don’t start,” he said.
Don’t start.