Dad looked polished in his tailored suit; Mom was elegant in silk. They were laughing. Then they noticed me. The laughter vanished. My father’s expression hardened.
Vanessa swept over, effortless and smiling. She wore a dress I knew cost $4,000—because I had paid the credit card bill that covered it three months earlier. “Myra!” She air-kissed my cheek, her perfume cold and sharp.
“You made it. We were so worried. We heard the accident was… traumatizing.” “It was a splenic rupture, Vanessa,” I replied evenly. “I nearly bled to death.”
She flicked her hand dismissively. “Mom said it was just a fender bender. Anyway, you look… tired. Are you sure you should be here?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
The attack started thirty minutes later. I stood near the dessert table when my mother’s voice carried just far enough to be heard. “We’ve tried everything,” she told a cluster of aunts. “She’s cut us off completely. I think the stress of single motherhood finally broke her. She’s been delusional—claiming we don’t help her.”
“Poor thing,” one aunt murmured. “It’s tragic,” Dad added, stepping in. “We’ve given her everything. Everything. And she treats us like enemies.”
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