My Brother Chipped Me for Labor, Now He’s Broke

My younger brother, Lemuel Brooks, is a university professor. In the meantime, I'm a factory floor worker.

Our mom has been bedridden for ten years due to a serious illness.

Every month, like clockwork, Lemuel transfers me $3,000 and tells me to stay home and care for her full-time.

That's how things were between us until he showed up with the government's new program, the 'Equal Responsibility Tracker,' and put a printed agreement on the table.

"You've been taking advantage of me for all these years," Lemuel said, all calm and smug. "Don't you think that's enough? From now on, we're still siblings, but every penny gets tracked. No more freebies."

He thought he was being clever.

Poor guy didn't realize how quickly that decision would come back to bite him after getting that Credit Tracker implant.

——

Helen's POV

That morning, I had just finished wiping down Mom's body and changing the sweat-soaked sheets when the pain in my lower back flared up again. I gritted my teeth, grabbed the icy iron bedrail for support, and eased myself onto the plastic stool nearby.

A second later, my phone lit up.

It was a WhatsApp notification. Lemuel had sent his usual $3000.

He'd added a line of text:

[Sis, this month's expenses for Mom. If money can solve it, it's not really a problem. Thanks for your hard work.]

I didn't even have time to respond before Mom's voice floated from the bed, "Helen, was that your brother again? Did he send you money?"

She didn't even lift her head from the pillow.

Then came the usual sermon.

"Honestly, if you'd just listened to me back then and gone to college, you could've been a professor like him by now. You'd be making good money. You wouldn't have to depend on your brother like this."

I didn't answer because I was still pressing my hand into the small of my back, trying to breathe through the pain.

But of course, she wasn't done.

"Lemuel's got a whole family to support. You don't need $3000 a month, do you?"

Her words landed like a punch. Right to the gut.

It's been ten years.

Ever since Mom had her stroke and became bedridden, and after Dad passed away, Lemuel became the only respectable one in the family.

Each time he sends money, he frames it as a personal act of charity, as if he's providing poverty relief, as though I'm a person he's generously sponsoring.

Mom even echoes that sentiment constantly, like my ten years of being at her bedside aren't out of love or duty, but some kind of scam.

I remember last month, when I had a bad case of the flu. I was feverish and trying to feed Mom, but she complained that I was too slow.

"Look at you, so delicate and weak! Lemuel teaches hundreds of students and never complains. But you get the sniffles and act like you're dying? If it weren't for Lemuel's money, you couldn't even afford cold medicine!"

Right on cue, the door creaked open.

Lemuel walked in, looking all neat and pressed, carrying a sleek silver box stamped with a government seal.

In bold letters: 'Equal Responsibility Tracker.'

He placed it on the nightstand and adjusted his glasses with that unmistakable know-it-all expression.

"Mom, Helen," Lemuel said, "I pulled some strings to get this. It's part of a new pilot program under the Federal Family Responsibility Tech initiative. Just passed ethics review. With everything going on, I'm under a lot of pressure. We should start keeping track of things and settle expenses fairly."

Mom nodded immediately.

"Lemuel always thinks ahead! That's exactly how it should be. This is how it should be, so your sister stops acting like we owe her."

Seeing them mirror each other back and forth made my back ache even more.

For the past ten years of my mother's illness, with her incontinence and reversed sleep schedule, I've been the one caring for her around the clock. I'm just a textile worker with only a high school diploma. I've gone gray, worn out my body, and even lost my husband.

And Lemuel?

My polished little brother, the tenured professor from a prestigious university?

What's he given besides that non-negotiable $3000 every month?

The last time he sat in this small, cramped room was six months ago. He stayed for twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes, took a phone call, and left before helping Mom sip water.

And now? After all that? My decade of sleepless nights and cracked hands is just some 'favor they want to tally up and pay off.

When Lemuel slid the agreement across the table, I noticed a section labeled "Ten-Year Retroactive Period."

I stared at it, and then I laughed.

"Fine," I said. "Let's do the math. Let's see just how much of a 'favor' I've really taken over these ten years."

After we signed, they took us to a private room at one of the hospitals partnered with the program. The chip implantation process was surprisingly fast.

The implantation process was surprisingly quick, just a tiny prick at the back of my neck, like a mosquito bite, and then it was over.