“Every time your mother said she needed extra cash for groceries,” he went on. “Every time she withdrew for ‘house repairs’ that never happened. Every time our savings dipped for an emergency that didn’t have a corresponding bill.”
He tapped the columns.
Mom made a sound then—small and strangled, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Her hand reached toward the book like she might slam it shut, but she dropped it halfway, fingers curling back to her chest.
“David, please don’t do this,” she whispered. “Not in front of everyone.”
“Everyone needs to know,” he said. “Because everyone has been laughing at Sarah. Everyone has been laughing at Jacob. Everyone thinks they’re weak. But they’re not weak.” His gaze found mine, and I saw something in his eyes I had never seen there before: raw, undiluted remorse. “They are the ones who have been paying the bill.”
My throat tightened.
He looked at me, really looked, like he was seeing me for the first time, not as the quieter daughter who could be relied upon to need less, but as a ledger entry. As a cost.
“I let this happen, Sarah,” he said. “I let you grow up believing you were less than her. I let you think she was special and you were just…there. But I was watching. I was counting.”
He turned the page.
Receipts were taped to the paper—bank transfer slips, printed email confirmations, photocopies of checks. Some were highlighted. Some had notes scribbled beside them in red pen.
He found one entry with his finger and read, “August fourteenth, two years ago. Twelve thousand dollars. You said it was for a brand partnership buy-in.” He flipped another page. “April third, last year. Eight thousand. You said it was for medical bills.”
Mom’s shoulders hitched. Her lip quivered. The napkin in her hand was a shredded mess now.
“But the biggest one,” David said quietly, “was three years ago. Labor Day weekend. The party we didn’t attend, because your mother told me you were sick.” Continue reading…
