I showed up in a tux, only to find my seat taken by my brother’s date. Dad said it was just a chair and told me not to be dramatic. I pulled out their condo lease renewal and said, it’s just an eviction notice.
I arrived in a tuxedo.
Black tie. Polished shoes. Hair actually styled for once.
It was my parents’ anniversary dinner at an upscale restaurant downtown. Private room. Reserved seating. Name cards placed carefully on each charger plate.
Mine was at the head table.
Next to Dad.
I stepped inside and stopped.
My chair was taken.
My brother’s date—someone none of us had met before—was sitting in it, scrolling on her phone.
My name card was gone.
I looked around.
Dad waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just a chair.”
I stayed calm. “That’s my seat.”
My brother laughed. “Relax. She didn’t know. Just grab another one.”
There wasn’t another one.
The table was full.
“You can stand in the corner,” Dad added casually. “Don’t be dramatic.”
A few relatives looked uncomfortable.
No one moved.
My brother leaned back in his own chair, arm draped around his date. “We’re already set. Don’t make it awkward.”
Awkward.
Like I had just shown up uninvited.
Like I hadn’t been the one paying the deposit for this dinner.
I reached into the inside pocket of my tuxedo jacket.
Not quickly.
Not angrily.
Just deliberately.
Pulled out a thick envelope.
Laid it on the table in front of Dad.
He frowned. “What’s this?”
I slid it toward him.
“Lease renewal papers,” I said evenly.
He blinked.
“For the condo.”
The one I co-signed three years ago when his credit application was denied.
He opened the envelope slowly.
I held his gaze.
“It’s just an eviction notice,” I added calmly.
The room went silent.
My brother stopped smiling first.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
Dad skimmed the first page, confusion turning into something sharper.
“This says the lease won’t be renewed,” he said.
“Correct,” I replied.
The condo they lived in wasn’t technically mine.
But the lease was under my name.
I had co-signed because they “just needed help for a year.”
That was three years ago.
I paid the security deposit.
Covered two missed payments.
Handled maintenance calls when Dad didn’t want to deal with the landlord.
Every time, I was told it was temporary.
Every time, I was told family comes first.
Now I was being told to stand in a corner.
“You wouldn’t do that,” my brother said quickly. “You’re overreacting over a chair.”
I leaned back slightly.
“It’s just housing,” I said calmly.
Dad looked up sharply. “You’re being petty.”
“No,” I replied. “I’m matching energy.”
The date shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
She glanced at my name card, now tucked awkwardly beside her plate.
