My Mother Charged Me $10 to Enter My Sister’s Housewarming — Three Days Later, Their Porch Was Surrounded
When Brittany invited me to her new place, I almost believed things were changing.
“Housewarming this Saturday. Four o’clock. Family and friends,” she texted. “Just you.”
I stopped by a nursery on the way and picked out a small snake plant. Simple. Easy to keep alive. A fresh start gift.
Her street was crowded when I arrived. Music spilled from the open windows. Laughter floated down the block.
Then I saw it.
A folding table set up by the front door.
A poster board sign taped to the front in thick black letters:
FAMILY ONLY — $10 ENTRY.
I stood there for a second, waiting for someone to yell “Gotcha!” Brittany loved being dramatic for attention. I figured this was another one of her stunts.
I walked up and knocked.
The door opened.
My mom stepped out just enough to block the entrance.
She didn’t hug me.
Didn’t smile.
“Sorry,” she said evenly. “This house is for family.”
I let out a confused laugh. “Mom. I am family.”
She gave a small shrug. “Then you know the rule. Ten dollars.”
Behind her, I could see the new hardwood floors, balloons tied to the staircase, guests turning to watch.
“An entrance fee?” I asked quietly.
Brittany leaned into view, drink in hand, eyeliner sharp, smile sharper.
“It’s not a big deal,” she said. “It’s symbolic. Ten bucks.” Then she tilted her head. “Oh wait… are you short this week?”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
Not everyone laughed.
But enough people did.
The ten dollars didn’t matter.
What mattered was my mother standing guard like I was an outsider asking for entry into a club.
I looked at her one more time, waiting for her to crack. To say she was joking.
She didn’t.
So I placed the plant gently on the edge of the table, right next to the sign.
And I left.
I didn’t cry in the car.
I didn’t call anyone.
I just drove home and sat in my quiet apartment while their voices replayed in my head.
At some point, I remembered I had taken a photo of the sign.
I opened our town’s neighborhood page.
No names.
No explanations.
Just the picture.
And one sentence:
“When your own family puts a price on walking through the front door.”
I posted it.
Then I went to sleep.
Three days later, I was at work when my coworker rushed over, eyes wide.
“Hannah… tell me this isn’t your sister’s house.”
On her phone was a live stream.
A crowd had gathered outside Brittany’s place. Neighbors. Strangers. Even a local news van parked crooked at the curb.
People were pointing at the folding table on the porch like it was evidence in a trial.
My mom stood stiff in the doorway, arms crossed.
Brittany hovered behind her, visibly shaken.
Then Brittany looked across the street.
Her face drained of color.
Because someone had just stepped out of a car.
And this time—
I wasn’t alone.
To be continued in C0mments 👇
