The iPad, the Break, and the Breaking Point
I’ve worked for everything I have. Really worked.
Not the type of “work hard” you see in Instagram reels or motivational posters. I mean the kind where your back hurts, your stomach growls, and you start wondering if your dreams are worth the cost.
I did night shifts that blurred into morning. I skipped meals to afford just one more month of Adobe Creative Suite. I washed socks in the sink of a tiny apartment I could barely turn around in because going to the laundromat meant spending money I didn’t have.
Every dollar I earned in my twenties went toward my dream of becoming a freelance designer. Posters for bands. Random logos. Sketches for ten bucks a pop. All on a second-hand drawing tablet I got from a pawn shop. It glitched constantly. Sometimes the stylus would freeze mid-line. Sometimes I’d get paid. Other times, silence.
Still, I kept going.
And when I finally got a steady gig—a real contract that paid real money—I spent most of my first big check on a single thing: a 1TB iPad Pro. Over $2,000. To anyone else, it was just a tablet. To me? It was everything. My studio. My office. My meetings. My future.
That iPad helped me land better clients. Better clients meant better money. Better money meant I could leave my shoebox apartment behind. Life started to change.
Until one morning, during a family visit, I walked into the living room—and saw my lifeline lying shattered on the floor.
The screen was cracked like a spiderweb. The case was gone. The charger was unplugged. And I just stood there, frozen.
It was supposed to be a quiet holiday weekend with the family. I’d stayed up late the night before finishing a pitch, left my iPad charging in Dad’s study—way out of reach from little fingers.
Or so I thought.
I stumbled into the living room half-asleep, hoping for some cinnamon coffee, and found my worst nightmare instead.
There it was: completely destroyed.
Josie, my older sister, sat on the couch holding a mug that read Best Mom Ever. I bought that mug. For Mom.
“Jo,” I said, trying not to panic, “what is this?”
She looked up and gave the kind of shrug you might give if someone spilled a few crackers.
“Oh, yep. The kids broke your iPad, bro,” she said casually. “But relax. Dad has an old Samsung. It runs YouTube or something. You’ll survive.”
I stared at her. No apology. Not even a fake sorry.
“How did they even get it?” I asked, slowly. “It was locked away.”
“I gave it to them,” she said like it was no big deal. “They wanted to watch cartoons. Don’t be dramatic, Tyler. You make good money. You can buy a better one.”
“That was a $2,000 work tool,” I said, trying to keep my voice level.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re loaded, Tyler. What’s the big deal?”
My hands clenched. My jaw tightened. Across the room, Maddie and Matt—her kids—were pressing buttons on the remote, not even looking up to say good morning.
I walked to the study. The door was open. My charger was still swinging from the edge of the desk.
I turned back to Josie.
“Why would you take something that wasn’t yours?” I asked.
“They were crying,” she said, like it justified everything. “They were bored. I just wanted to watch my movie in peace. You were napping, Tyler. You weren’t using it.”
My voice cracked. “You let your kids play with a $2,000 device that wasn’t yours. And then it broke.”
“Relax,” she said louder, annoyed now. “You’re their uncle. What, you can’t share with your niece and nephew?”
I couldn’t even speak. My throat was tight. My hands were shaking.
So I left the room. Locked myself in the guest bathroom. And just… breathed.
This wasn’t new. Josie’s always been this way. Reckless. Entitled. She borrows money with stories about “rent” or “diapers,” then posts spa pictures days later. White robes. Champagne. Captions like ‘self-care queen’.
No mention of me. There never is.
She’s turned her life into one long string of emotional emergencies—and I’ve been the one to catch her every single time.
The good brother. The “understanding” one. The fixer.
But not this time.
Not after she laughed when I told her what the iPad meant to me.
That afternoon, when the kids were napping and everyone else was either snoring or half-watching football, I found Josie alone. She was scrolling on her phone with a bowl of popcorn in her lap.
I sat down across from her.
“You owe me $2,200,” I said. My voice was flat. Calm. Serious.
She laughed. Laughed.
“Tyler, come on,” she said like I was joking. “It’s not that serious. Just buy another one.”
“I’m not kidding,” I said. My palms were sweaty, but I kept my tone firm.
She sighed, groaned, tossed her phone to the couch cushion. “Oh my God. Are you really flipping out over a tablet?”
“This isn’t just a tablet. It’s how I work. It’s how I pay rent.”
She rolled her eyes. “You are being so dramatic.”
“No,” I said. “You were careless. And now you don’t want to deal with the fallout.”
“Ugh, just drop it, Tyler,” she said.
But I didn’t. I leaned in slightly. “This isn’t charity. You’re responsible for your kids. You and Duncan. Not me. Your ex should be paying maintenance. Figure it out.”
Her face twisted. “You’re unbelievable. Family’s supposed to forgive. You’re supposed to love them like they’re your own!”
“Family doesn’t mean being your backup bank account,” I said. “You’re the one acting like a stranger.”
That shut her up. She stormed out onto the patio, slamming the glass door like a teenager grounded from her phone.
I left that night.
I hugged Mom. I thanked Dad. I gave Maddie and Matt a hug too—they’re just kids. The blame wasn’t theirs.
I didn’t say goodbye to Josie.
The next morning, I filed a case in small claims court.
Two days later, she called.
“How dare you do this, Tyler?!” she screamed.
“Hi, Jo,” I said, sipping tea.
“Are you really suing me? Over KIDS?! Kids who are YOUR FAMILY?!”
“No, Jo,” I said. “I’m suing someone who refuses to take responsibility.”
And I hung up.
A few days later, Mom and I met for coffee. She looked tired. Said Josie had cried in the kitchen after I left. Said I’d humiliated her. Treated her like a stranger. That I forced her to pay.
I didn’t say much. Just stirred my coffee.
Because Mom finally saw it too.
A week later, I got a notification. A deposit: $2,200.
She had the money. She always did. She just thought I’d let it go—again.
But not this time.
I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about it anymore. I’d get the new iPad, move on.
But I couldn’t stop hearing what Josie said that day.
“Family’s supposed to be forgiving.”
It echoed in my chest. Not sharp. Just dull. Heavy.
Was I wrong? Had I gone too far?
Was I the villain in her story now?
But then I remembered every time I didn’t speak up.
When I was 23 and she begged for rent help—then bought drinks by the pool.
When she crashed her car and I co-signed for a new one.
When she forgot Maddie’s birthday and I scrambled, spent $200 on cupcakes, balloons, and a rented bouncy house just so her daughter wouldn’t cry.
And she didn’t even say thank you.
She let everyone believe she had it all handled.
Because I was the safety net.
But people don’t change when there are no consequences.
They change when it finally costs them.
Two days later, my new iPad arrived. I unboxed it slowly. Peeled off the plastic like it was a new beginning. Loaded my apps. Snapped the case on.
It wasn’t just tech. It was a message.
This far. No further.
I didn’t clean up her mess. I didn’t absorb the damage. I made her carry it.
And for once, she did.
Josie didn’t speak to me for a while. Honestly? It was peaceful.
But a month later, she sent me a photo.
Maddie and Matt, sitting at the kitchen table with crayons and coloring books. The caption read:
“No screens today. Only crayons and crayons only!”
Underneath, she wrote:
“I didn’t think you’d really do it, Tyler. I thought I could guilt you again. Maybe you were right. Maybe I needed to be held accountable.”
It wasn’t quite an apology. But maybe… it was the start of something different.
I didn’t reply.
But I didn’t block her either.
Because sometimes, the only way to show someone what your work is worth… is to let them break it.
And then send them the bill—while you enjoy a quiet slice of carrot cake.
