Auditing My Brother’s Fake Dream

My father has always been haunted by the ghost of an impossible dream: he wanted to be an artist. But instead of picking up a brush himself, he pinned that entire, delusional ambition onto my brother, Tyler—a man whose primary talent is converting expensive espresso into wasted hours. And I, a forensic accountant who lives my life by the cold, hard logic of a balance sheet, became the only obstacle in their way. To scrape together the funds for Tyler’s "debut gallery exhibition," my father announced a plan so reckless it made my blood run cold during our family dinner. He was going to sell the house. Our only home. When I refused to sign off, he pointed a trembling finger at me, his face twisted with a primal sort of loathing. "You were born with a calculator for a heart, Natalie! You don't have a single drop of soul or art in your entire body!"