“Busy, yes.”
“That’s a shame.”
She patted my arm.
“Family should come first, you know.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I excused myself to get water.
The kitchen was quiet, a brief escape. I poured myself a glass, hands trembling slightly.
That’s when I heard voices from the laundry room.
Mom and Aunt Carol.
I shouldn’t have listened, but something, instinct, fate, 15 years of doubt, made me stay.
What I heard next changed everything.
I stood frozen by the refrigerator. The laundry room door was cracked open just enough.
Aunt Carol’s voice.
“Diane, I don’t understand. Serena’s a financial analyst, right? She must make good money. Why doesn’t she help you out?”
My heart stopped.
Mom’s laugh was sharp, dismissive.
“Her? Please, Carol. She’s never sent us a dime.”
The glass in my hand trembled.
“Really?” Aunt Carol sounded surprised. “But she seems to be doing so well.”
“All show.”
Mom’s voice dripped with contempt.
“You know how she is. Always had her nose in the air. Too good for her own family. We raised her for 18 years, fed her, clothed her, and she owes us. But does she care? No.”
I pressed my back against the counter, tried to breathe.
“That’s terrible.”
“Thank God for Marcus.”
Mom sighed.
“He’s the one who takes care of us every month without fail. He understands what family means. Marcus always was the sweet one.”
“Exactly. Serena’s just, well, you know. Selfish.”
The word sliced through me.
Selfish.
$360,000.
One hundred eighty months of automatic transfers. Never missing a single one. Not when I was sick. Not when I lost clients. Not when Daniel and I were saving for our wedding.
Selfish.
I set my glass down slowly, carefully, so it wouldn’t shatter, because I wanted to shatter. I wanted to march in there and scream the truth until my throat bled.
But something stopped me.
Daniel’s voice in my head.
We need proof.
I pulled out my phone, found a contact I hadn’t called in months. My finger hovered over the name.
Margaret Chen, CPA.
I pressed call.
The cold December air hit my face as I stepped onto the back porch. The phone was already ringing.
“Serena?”
Margaret’s voice was warm but confused.
“It’s Christmas Eve.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Is everything okay?”
I closed my eyes, drew a breath.
“I need documentation of every transfer I’ve made to my parents. The full 15 years.”
Silence on the line.
“That’s a lot of records.”
“I know.”
“Can I ask why?”
I watched my breath fog in the winter air. Inside, I could hear laughter, Christmas music, the sounds of a family that had been lying about me for years.
“They’re telling people I’ve never helped them.”
My voice was steady, calmer than I felt.
“They’re giving my brother credit for everything. I need proof, Margaret. Official records.”
Another pause.
