Around noon, she called back, and this time I answered.
It started as if we were still on the same side.
« There’s a problem with your bank, » she said. « They’re blocking the transfer. »
I let the silence stretch out until it became oppressive.
« I blocked him, » I finally said.
She laughs, that forced laugh she uses to avoid losing control.
« Okay, but you’ll sort this out, won’t you? I just need the $900 as always. »
« As always, » I repeated.
“Non.”
There was a silence. Then his voice became higher-pitched.
She said she was willing to forget the whole Christmas thing if I apologized for catching her and sent her the money. She said it was ridiculous to break up a family over a joke.
She said that my daughter wouldn’t even remember the video in a week and that it was me who was traumatizing her by dramatizing the situation.
I hung up.
The messages didn’t stop. First the guilt-tripping, then the manipulation, then the insults. She said I was emotionally unstable, that all of this concerned my deceased husband and not her, that I was isolating myself and becoming a bitter and disillusioned woman.
She said my daughter would grow up alone because of my choices.
Each word was designed to press the same button she had pressed my whole life.
That evening, I put my phone on silent and baked cookies with my daughter. We put on some music and danced in the kitchen, flour everywhere, laughing like we hadn’t for months.
She suspected nothing. Or perhaps she knew and simply chose joy despite everything.
The next morning, at 8:15, someone knocked on my door.
When I opened it, Rebecca was there, perfectly made up and dressed as if she were going to a job interview.
She didn’t wait to be invited in. She bumped into me and started talking at full speed, pacing my kitchen as if it belonged to her.
She said she understood I was upset. She said the message was meant to be funny. She said our parents thought I’d overreacted.
Then she stopped, sat down at my table, smiled gently, and said, « But I am here to forgive you. »
“Forgive me.”
She took out her phone and casually added, « So, if we can resolve this $900 issue, I’ll consider it a thing of the past. »
I looked at her and said just one word: « No. »
She stared at me as if I were speaking another language.
Then she leaned forward, her eyes narrowed, and said, « Are you really doing this to prove you’re not a failure? That your child isn’t a failure? »
I slapped her. It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. It was the result of years of swallowing my words, of remaining silent, of preserving peace for people who didn’t deserve it.
Having finally found a way out, I opened the front door and pointed outside.
She left without another word.
That evening, my daughter asked me if her aunt was angry.
I told him that we were establishing new rules. And the first rule was to no longer tolerate being treated like this.
She nodded, picked up her crayons and resumed coloring as if the conversation made perfect sense.
The next morning, my parents called.
They didn’t ask what had happened. They didn’t ask how my daughter was.
They said a compromise had to be found, and I knew exactly what would follow.
When my parents called the next morning, I knew what it was about before I even answered.
It wasn’t worry. It wasn’t curiosity. It was an attempt to limit the damage.
My father’s voice rang out first, which was unusual. Usually, it was my mother who softened the tone, who pretended not to take sides when she always did.
But this time, my father spoke in a low, firm voice, as he does when he believes that only authority should settle things.
He asked me if I had time to come by so we could discuss it like adults.
I asked a question.
« Will Rebecca be there? »
He said yes, as if it were obvious, as if every important conversation naturally included him.
Then he added: « She wants to find a solution. »
That’s when I realized that I wasn’t being invited to speak, but summoned to be corrected.
I said, « Well, anyway. »
It wasn’t weakness. It was curiosity.
I wanted to hear it all out loud, in a single room, without filters or after-sales messages. I wanted to stop wondering if I was imagining the imbalance, the cruelty, the way everyone bent over backwards for Rebecca while I had to silently bear the consequences.
I wanted certainty.
I told my daughter we were going to her grandparents’ house.
She asked if her aunt would be there.
I said yes.
She didn’t seem enthusiastic, but she wasn’t complaining either.
She took a book and a pack of felt-tip pens and told me she would stay quiet if it was an adult activity.
It broke my heart, the way she was already preparing to make herself smaller.
We deliberately arrived ten minutes late. Rebecca’s car was already parked in the driveway. I parked behind it and sat for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, staring at the front door.
My daughter leaned over, unbuckled her seatbelt, and said, « Let’s get this over with right now. »
She looked tired, at 8 years old, and already exhausted by adults.
Inside, it was exactly as I had imagined.
Rebecca was lying on the sofa, a coffee in her hand, her legs tucked up under her as if she were at a spa. My mother got up too quickly and gave me a nervous smile.
My father nodded once, already positioned at the head of the room like a mediator who had already made a decision.
My daughter huddled in a corner with her book and didn’t look up.
My mother began, her voice trembling just enough to sound sincere.
She said she hated seeing us argue, especially during the holidays. She added that the situation had clearly gotten out of hand, tempers were flaring, and we all needed to remember that we were a family.
My father then gave a speech about understanding each other’s points of view and the need to not let a single incident divide everyone.
They then turned to Rebecca.
She didn’t apologize. Not really.
She said she was sorry the video had hurt her. She stated she never intended to harm anyone. She added that she hadn’t appreciated being physically assaulted and that she had been having nightmares about it.
She adopted a fragile, wounded tone, like the real victim present in the room.
Then she tilted her head and said, « Honestly, if I had known Janette was going through such a difficult time, I would never have said anything to her. »
« A sensitive area. »
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