When Tyler’s most valuable work tool is destroyed during a family visit, he’s forced to confront a lifetime of overlooked boundaries and buried resentment. What begins as a shattered screen spirals into a reckoning years in the making… because sometimes, the only way to heal is to finally say no.
I’ve worked hard for everything I have now.
Not the kind of hard that gets posted with gym selfies or productivity quotes. I mean the real kind of hard work. The night shifts that bleed into sunrise, the skipped meals so I could afford one more month of paid Photoshop, washing my socks in the bathroom sink while living in a shoebox apartment because going to a laundromat cost too much.
I’ve worked hard, trust me.
Every single cent I earned in my 20s went into building my freelance design career. Band posters, odd commissions, cheap logo work. I worked on a second-hand tablet that I bought at a local pawn shop. It was unreliable and the quality was horrible. Sometimes I’d get paid for the work I did, sometimes I wouldn’t.
I kept going anyway.
And when I finally landed a solid contract, I made one big investment: a 1TB iPad Pro. It cost me over $2,000. To anyone else, it was a tablet. To me, it was my livelihood. It was my studio, my client meetings, my deadlines, all in one slate of expensive technology. Soon after, it helped me sign big contracts.
Contracts that helped me move out of the shoebox and into something more comfortable. It gave me a new chance at… life.
So when I saw it shattered on my parents’ living room floor, something inside me cracked right along with it.
We’d all gathered for the holidays, just a few days of family time before the new year started. I worked late into the night finishing a pitch, then left my iPad charging in Dad’s study, exactly where no little hands could reach it.
The next morning, I walked into the living room, rubbing my eyes, thinking about a mug of cinnamon coffee, when I saw it.
Laying on the wooden floor, spiderwebbed, protective screen completely gone. The case was peeling off and tossed nearby like packaging on Christmas morning.
Josie, my sister, sat on the couch sipping coffee from a mug that said Best Mom Ever. I’d bought that mug for my mom two years ago.
“Jo, what’s this?” I said, pointing to the remains of my iPad.
“Oh, yep,” she said casually. “The kids broke your iPad, Bro. But relax, Tyler. Dad has an old Samsung. It runs YouTube and maybe some other programs. You’ll be fine.”
I just stared at her. There was absolutely no apology. Not even a hint of regret in her voice.
“How did they even get it?” I asked. “It wasn’t within their reach, Josie.”
