Auditing My Brother’s Fake DreamChapter 1

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!"

My Aunt Beatrice sat beside him, fanning the flames. "Oh, Natalie, don't be so small-minded. If Tyler becomes a master, think of the prestige it brings to the family name."

I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "A master? His work wouldn't even pass a freshman remedial class. It’s amateur hour at best."

That single sentence was the match that lit the fuse.

By the next afternoon, Tyler had posted a weeping, soul-baring "open letter" on Substack and Instagram, accusing his "cold-blooded sister" of strangling his artistic spirit. He paired the post with a moody, 45-degree-angle selfie looking at the clouds, followed by slides of his "masterpieces."

He expected a wave of public sympathy.

Instead, the comment section became a massacre.

“Dude, this composition is a disaster. My three-year-old nephew has a better grasp of negative space.”

“Is this art? Or did a printer have a seizure?”

“Wait, you’re selling the family house for THIS? Your sister is a saint for stopping you.”

“Big Sis is the only one with her head on straight. Get a job, man.”

* * *

Saturday night dinner was a performance. My father, Arthur, had done something he almost never did—he’d opened a bottle of vintage Napa Cab.

He was flushed, his eyes bright with a manic sort of energy as he raised his glass. "I have a major announcement," he said.

The table went silent. My mother, Martha, looked down at her plate, her shoulders hunched in familiar anxiety. Aunt Beatrice wore a smug, knowing grin. Tyler sat slumped in his chair, twirling an expensive, imported Italian squirrel-hair brush between his fingers like it was a cigarette.

Arthur cleared his throat. "I’ve decided. We’re putting the house on the market."

My fork clattered against the porcelain. "Sell the house? And go where, Dad?"

I stared at him, searching for any sign that this was a joke, or a symptom of the wine.

Arthur glared back. "Where we live is secondary. What matters is Tyler’s future. He has a gift, Natalie. He shouldn't be trapped by four brick walls and a mortgage. I’m going to use the equity to lease him a high-end studio in the city. We’re hiring a professional curator. We’re going to give him an exhibition that will put this family on the map."

I sat there, stunned. This house was old, sure, but it was our anchor. It was the only thing we truly owned in a city that was becoming unaffordable. And he wanted to liquidate our entire life’s security for Tyler’s glorified finger-painting?

Beatrice started clapping, her jewelry jingling. "Arthur, your vision is just... breathtaking! I’ve always said Tyler was special. One day, a single one of his canvases will buy ten houses like this." She turned to me, her voice sharpening into a needle. "Natalie, you’re making six figures now. Surely you’ll be the first to support your brother?"

I looked her dead in the eye. "This isn't an investment, Beatrice. It’s a sinkhole. Tyler hasn't even mastered basic perspective. A gallery show? It’s a joke."

Arthur slammed his fist onto the table, making the wine glasses jump. "What do you know about art?" he bellowed. "All you do is crunch numbers. Your head is a ledger, nothing more. Your brother is a genius, and the path of a genius is never understood by common people!"

I looked at Tyler. He was playing the part of the wounded martyr perfectly, his eyes shimmering with rehearsed tears. "Natalie, you just can't stand to see me succeed. You want me to spend my life staring at a dusty ledger just like you, don't you?"

My mother reached over, tugging at my sleeve. "Natalie, honey, just... let it go for tonight. Your father is excited."

I pulled my arm away. "Mom, this isn't about letting things go. This is the house. Your name is on the deed, too. Do you honestly agree with this?"

She looked away, unable to meet my gaze.

Arthur pointed a finger at my nose. "I am the head of this household. What I say goes! And you’re not just going to agree—you’re going to hand over that twenty thousand you’ve been hoarding in your savings. Consider it the seed money for your brother’s career."

I laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "I won't give you a cent. And I won't let you touch that deed."

Arthur’s face turned a dangerous shade of purple. He grabbed his wine glass and hurled it. It didn't hit me, but the red wine splattered across my white silk blouse like a fresh wound.

"You selfish, ungrateful bitch!" he roared. "I paid for your degree! I gave you everything! And now you turn your back on your own blood?"

I stood up, looking at the strangers sitting around the table. "His dream shouldn't be built on the ruins of our lives."

I walked to my room and locked the door. Behind me, I could hear Beatrice’s toxic whisper. "Don't worry, Arthur. She just needs to be taught a lesson. Why does a girl need that much money anyway? She’ll just take it to some husband’s house one day. Better to invest it in Tyler now."

I sat on the edge of my bed, looking at my reflection in the mirror—the red stain on my chest, the shaking of my hands. I couldn't stay here another night.

But I couldn't just leave. This house was half my mother’s, and it held years of my own sweat and contributions. I pulled out my phone and began searching for the documents I’d scanned months ago.

If they wanted to live in a dream, I was going to be the one to wake them up.

Outside, Arthur began kicking at my door. "Hand over your cards, Natalie! Or you’re out on the street tomorrow morning!"

I gripped my phone until my knuckles turned white.