I carried Emma upstairs to pack, my hands trembling not with sadness, but with the adrenaline of a soldier preparing for war. As I zipped up her bag, I realized I held the nuclear codes to their comfortable lives in the palm of my hand.
“Why don’t they like me?” Emma whispered against my neck as we sat on the guest room bed.
How do you explain the concept of genetic elitism to a six-year-old? How do you tell your child that the people who should love her unconditionally view her as a biological incompatibility?
“Sometimes people are mean for no good reason,” I told her, smoothing her hair. “But it’s not about you. You are perfect. You are my family. And that is what matters most.”
I changed her out of the red velvet dress and into her comfortable sweatpants. “Pack your toys, baby. We’re leaving.”
“But dinner…”
“We’re going to have a better dinner. Just us.”
While she gathered her stuffed animals, I pulled out my phone. The initial shock had hardened into a cold, diamond-sharp focus. I didn’t just want to leave; I wanted to balance the books.
Two years ago, my parents had come to me, desperate. Bad investments and my father’s heart surgery had left them on the verge of foreclosure. I had transferred $50,000 from my life savings—money I had scraped together for years—to save their house. We signed a loan agreement. A “formality,” my father had laughed.
I opened my banking app. Principal remaining: $48,500.
I typed the first text to my mother:
We’re leaving. I’ll be by next week to discuss the immediate repayment of the loan.
Next, my brother Todd. Three months ago, he begged me to be a silent partner in his consulting firm’s expansion. He needed my capital and my credit rating. The partnership documents were sitting on my desk at home, reviewed and ready to sign.
I typed to Todd:
Congratulations on the promotion. I’ll be sending the partnership documents back unsigned. I’m pulling my funding. Good luck with the expansion.
Finally, Diane. For the past year, I had been the free nanny for her three kids so she could “find herself” and work part-time. I picked them up, fed them, helped with homework.
I typed to Diane:
I need you to find a new babysitter effective immediately. I am no longer available.
My phone started buzzing before we even reached the stairs. My mother. Declined. Todd. Declined.
We walked down the stairs with our bags. My mother was waiting at the bottom, arms crossed, blocking the path to the front door.
“Where are you going? Dinner is almost ready. Don’t be dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” I let out a short, bitter laugh. “You told my daughter she isn’t family. You excluded her. And now you want me to eat your turkey?”
“It was a joke,” Diane slurred, emerging from the dining room. “Can’t you take a joke?”
“Explain the punchline, Diane. Which part of making a six-year-old cry is the funny part?”
“You’re being oversensitive,” my father grumbled from the living room. “Emma is fine. Look at her.”
Emma was hiding behind my leg, making herself as small as possible.
“Move, Mom,” I said, my voice dropping an octave.
“If you walk out that door,” my mother hissed, her face contorting, “don’t expect any help from us ever again.”
I looked her dead in the eye. “I have never expected help from you. But apparently, you’ve been expecting quite a lot from me. Check your texts.”
We walked out into the cold night air. It bit at my cheeks, but it felt cleaner than the air inside that house. As I buckled Emma into her car seat, my phone lit up with a group chat message from my father: Very disappointed in you.
I typed one response before blocking the notifications: I’m disappointed in all of you, too. The difference is, I have the paperwork to prove why.
Cliffhanger:
See more on the next page
Advertisement
