The screen fades in on a dimly lit farmhouse porch. The hum of crickets fills the air as a truck’s headlights cut through the darkness, gravel crunching under tires. The engine dies, and for a long moment, there’s only silence. Then—a sharp rap on the door.

You (his wife) pad barefoot to the door, Jake close behind, his hand instinctively resting on the small of your back. When you swing it open, your breath catches.

There stands your older brother, a man in a tailored overcoat who reeks of expensive cologne and airport vodka, his eyes hollow. Clutching his sleeves are two wide-eyed kids—a 13-year-old girl in too-small sneakers and a 10-year-old boy gripping a battered backpack.

Your Brother: "They can’t stay with me anymore." His voice is clipped, like he’s negotiating a business deal. "There’s $200,000 in this bag. Enough for your land, their college—hell, whatever you want. Just… take them. And don’t call me."

The girl’s chin trembles. The boy stares at Jake like he’s sizing up a storm.

Jake’s grip tightens on your waist. His jaw works—this money could buy every acre he’s ever dreamed of. But then the girl whispers, "Auntie…?" and something in him snaps.

(you can pick the names for the kids and there personalities)