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

Helen's POV

Sweat was sliding down the side of my face in slow, sticky streams. I reached up to wipe it away with one hand, but the handlebars wobbled, nearly steering me straight into a guardrail. I steadied myself with a shaky breath and kept pedaling.

By the time I finally made it to the farm, my shirt was soaked clean through and clinging to my back like shrink wrap. The woman behind the vegetable stand looked me over and gave a long, pitying sigh.

"Miss, this is brutal. Why doesn't your brother come do this himself?"

I offered a tired smile, trying to play it off. "He's busy. He's a professor, you know, has classes to teach."

I grabbed the organic greens that Mom liked best, then tossed in a slab of fresh pork ribs. Lemuel had been particular and said they were crucial for 'calcium supplementation.'

...

When I arrived home, Lemuel was relaxing in the living room, peeling an apple for Mom. She seemed as happy as if she had just won the lottery, smiling widely.

"Lemuel was just telling me that once he clears up his schedule, he's going to take us out to the countryside for a day trip," Mom told me, glowing with excitement.

The moment Lemuel saw my sweaty, soiled face, his expression changed to annoyance.

"What took you so long? Mom's already hungry."

He didn't ask if I was okay, didn't wonder if I got there safely in that heat, or if the ride had tired me out. He just pointed at the basket like a boss, giving orders.

"Wash the ribs really well. Simmer them for two hours. The broth should be rich and milky white."

I didn't say a word. I just nodded and went into the kitchen. The range hood rattled as the soup simmered, the pot bubbling and hissing like it was whispering secrets. The smell spread throughout the house.

From the living room, I could hear Mom talking with Lemuel.

"You know how to take care of me," Mom said with a proud, almost dreamy tone. "You always remember what I like. Helen should take notes. She's so careless."

Then, like she was sharing some deep life lesson, she added, "You're the only one I can count on, Lemuel. I've truly lived a blessed life."

Over an hour later, I brought dinner to the table.

Mom took a sip of the rib soup and closed her eyes, savoring it like it was gourmet.

"Lemuel really puts thought into everything," she said, practically swooning. "This soup's delicious."

Lemuel threw a look my way like he was a head chef getting five stars.

"As long as Mom's happy. Sis, make this your new standard. If $3000 a month isn't enough, I'll throw in a little extra."

I kept my head down and quietly drank the soup. The ribs were tender, cooked so well that they fell right off the bone. Rich and flavorful…but somehow it didn't taste enjoyable to me.

Later that night, my phone buzzed.

The 'Equal Responsibility Tracker' app lit up and gave me a breakdown of the day:

Helen: $25 deducted

Lemuel: $229 deducted

I stared at the numbers. Strangely enough, they made me feel calm.

Maybe this system really was fairer than people's hearts.

The app remembered I biked fifteen miles through scorching heat to get those ribs. It recalled the nights when my fingers were too cold to move, but I still massaged Mom's swollen limbs. It also remembered the ten long years of care I gave without ever hearing a "thank you," while Lemuel dismissed it all as "just a little trouble."

After all, some sacrifices deserve more than empty praise. They deserve to be counted.

That night, for the first time, I actually slept through the night.

...

Bright and early the next morning, Lemuel came storming up to my door, practically vibrating with anger.

"Helen, call customer service right now! There's something messed up with this system! It says I got charged over $200? That's got to be a glitch!"

I didn't say a word; I just unlocked my phone, opened the app, and called support while he was right there.

The customer service rep answered in a calm, measured voice and began reading off the activity log:

"Helen, procurement activity: round trip to the organic farm (2 hours 15 minutes in high-temperature weather), recorded as 2.25 work hours, converted to $112.50 (including heat hazard compensation)."

"Helen, cooking service: pork rib stew (detailed preparation), 1.5 hours, converted to $75."

"Helen, basic care: body cleaning (20 minutes at 32°C room temp), recorded as 0.33 hours, converted to $16.50."

"Ingredients such as pork ribs cost $50, evenly split between both parties."

Lemuel just stared at the phone, jaw dropping open.

Then he snapped. "The ribs only cost $50! Why the hell am I being charged over $200?"

He snatched the phone and barked into it.

"She chose to bike there! I never said she couldn't take a cab! And now stewing ribs counts as work hours? Since when is cooking at home considered labor?"

But the rep didn't flinch.

"The system recorded that Mr. Lemuel requested the procurement task and did not provide transportation or any subsidy. Heatwave compensation is a standard protocol. During the meal, Ms. Helen consumed only a small amount of vegetables. The ribs and soup were primarily consumed by Ms. Brook's mother and Mr. Lemuel. Ingredient costs are apportioned based on actual consumption."

Lemuel stood there frozen, still gripping the phone, his mouth slightly open, but no words coming out.

Meanwhile, the app continued quietly in the background. No emotion, no bias—just recording every action, every hour, every cent.

Because unlike people, it actually noticed.

Mom chimed in from the side.

"Lemuel only asked for those fresh vegetables because he was thinking of me. So what if his sister runs a few errands? Does that really need to be turned into dollars and cents?"

She then reached for Lemuel's hand, patting it like she always did when she was trying to soothe him.

"Don't let it get to you, son. This whole system is just a machine. It can't understand the love we have as a family."

Lemuel exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as he pointed a finger at the phone screen.

"Alright, let's say, for the sake of argument, we accept the grocery run and the cooking charges. Fine. But what is this?" He pointed harder. "A hundred bucks for labor? Who the hell makes this much an hour as a caregiver?"

Then he turned to me, narrowing his eyes. "Did you rig the system somehow? Snuck in a custom setting to milk more money out of me?"

Right on cue, his phone chimed.

[System Alert: Mr. Lemuel has questioned the system's impartiality and falsely accused Ms. Helen. A penalty of $50 has been issued.]