“True,” Jason grinned. “110. You’re rich, May. Don’t be stingy.”
I felt the envelope in my purse practically vibrate against my leg.
“Well,” I said, sitting up, “I guess we should talk logistics then.”
“Good,” Mom sighed, relaxing her shoulders. “I knew you’d be reasonable. I’ll bring dessert. I made apple pie.”
She stood triumphantly. She thought the negotiation was over. She thought she’d extracted the resource. I waited until she was at the kitchen doorway.
“Actually, Mom, wait,” I said.
She turned, smiling. “Yes, dear.”
“I have a counterproposal,” I said.
Jason rolled his eyes.
“Oh my God! Here come the conditions. Just send me the money through Venmo, Mabel.”
“No conditions,” I said clearly and firmly. “Just one small change to the housing situation.”
“What do you mean?” Dad asked, frowning.
“Well,” I said, looking Jason straight in the eye, “you said that family helps family and that we need to cut costs, so I came up with a way to save everyone a lot of money.”
“Great,” Jason said. “What’s up?”
I leaned forward, rested my elbows on the table, and struck the first blow.
“Great,” I said, my voice cutting through the thick, salsa-scented air like a scalpel, “then you can move into your house because I’m going to sell mine and you’re going to need extra space.”
For ten seconds, the only sounds in the dining room were the ticking of the grandfather clock and the distant, muffled roar of the football crowd coming from the television in the other room. Jason was the first to react. He blinked, his fork halfway to his mouth.
“What?” “You heard me,” I said, leaning back in my chair, feeling a strange, cold calm wash over me. It was the adrenaline. “I’m selling my house. Actually, that’s not true. I sold my house. The closing documents were signed yesterday with DocuSign. The new owners move in in 14 days.”
“You sold… you sold the house?”
Mom’s voice was a trembling whisper, like she’d just confessed to murder.
“But it’s a family heirloom. We helped you pick it out.”
“You helped me look at three Zillow listings, Mom. I paid the down payment. I paid off the mortgage. I paid for the new roof last year when you said you couldn’t do without the handyman,” I reminded her.
“But where are you going to live?” Dad asked, his face turning purple. “You can’t sell a house without consulting your father. That’s financial irresponsibility.” “I’m moving to Seattle,” I dropped the second bombshell. “I accepted a transfer to corporate headquarters. I’m a senior director of logistics. It includes a substantial raise and a relocation package. I fly out next Tuesday.”
“Seattle?”
Jason tapped his fork. “That’s halfway across the country. You can’t move to Seattle.”
“No strings attached,” I said, my voice clear and firm. “Just a minor adjustment to the housing situation.”
“What do you mean?” Dad asked, frowning.
“Well,” I said, looking Jason straight in the eye, “you said that family helps family and that we need to cut costs, so I came up with a way to save everyone a lot of money.”
“Great,” Jason said. “What’s up?”
I leaned forward, rested my elbows on the table, and struck the first blow.
“Great,” I said, my voice cutting through the thick, salsa-scented air like a scalpel, “then you can move into your house because I’m going to sell mine and you’re going to need extra space.”
For ten seconds, the only sounds in the dining room were the ticking of the grandfather clock and the distant, muffled roar of the football crowd coming from the television in the other room. Jason was the first to react. He blinked, his fork halfway to his mouth.
“What?” “You heard me,” I said, leaning back in my chair, feeling a strange, cold calm wash over me. It was the adrenaline. “I’m selling my house. Actually, that’s not true. I sold my house. The closing documents were signed yesterday with DocuSign. The new owners move in in 14 days.”
“You sold… you sold the house?”
Mom’s voice was a trembling whisper, like she’d just confessed to murder.
“But it’s a family heirloom. We helped you pick it out.”
“You helped me look at three Zillow listings, Mom. I paid the down payment. I paid off the mortgage. I paid for the new roof last year when you said you couldn’t do without the handyman,” I reminded her.
“But where are you going to live?” Dad asked, his face turning purple. “You can’t sell a house without consulting your father. That’s financial irresponsibility.” “I’m moving to Seattle,” I dropped the second bombshell. “I accepted a transfer to corporate headquarters. I’m a senior director of logistics. It includes a substantial raise and a relocation package. I fly out next Tuesday.”
“Seattle?”
Jason tapped his fork. “That’s halfway across the country. You can’t move to Seattle.”
“Mabel, open this door. We know you’re in there.”
I took a deep breath, unbolted it, and opened the door. I stood in the doorway, blocking their way in.
“You’re trespassing,” I said calmly.
“Trespassing?” Dad sneered, pushing me aside before I could stop him. “This is my daughter’s house. I’m not trespassing.”
They filed into the living room and stopped dead in their tracks. The sight of the empty room, the stacks of boxes, and the bare walls seemed to finally bring them to reality.
“You really are,” Mom whispered, staring into the empty space. “You really are destroying this family.”
“I’m moving, Mom. People do it every day,” I said, leaning against a stack of boxes with the kitchen sign. “Now, why are you here? I have a flight tomorrow at 6:00 a.m.”
“You know why we’re here,” Jason snapped. He was pacing back and forth, his shoes squeaking on the wood. “The money, Mabel. The capital check cleared today. We know it did. Dad called the bank and asked you for it.”
“You pretended to be me to check on the closing status.”
I looked at Dad, horrified.
“I only asked a couple of questions,” Dad grumbled, looking away. “I needed to know if you were lying.”
“You have the money,” Jason said. “We need 15,000.”
“15?” I raised an eyebrow. “It was 2,000 a month on Sunday. Now it’s 15 all at once. Inflation?”
“Just write the check, Mabel,” Jason mocked. “Or transfer it. Then you can go back to your little rain-soaked paradise.”
“Is that what the 5,000 is for?” I asked quietly. “For the consoles.”
The room fell into a deathly silence. Jason froze mid-sentence. Mom gasped, her hand going to her mouth. Dad stiffened.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jason stammered, but his face had gone pale.
“I spoke with Sarah,” I said, watching them closely. “She told me about the misunderstanding. You were stealing inventory, Jason. $5,000 worth. And the store gave you 48 hours to return it or they’d go to the police.”
“That little liar…” Jason hissed.
So I turned to my parents.
“You knew. You knew he’d committed a serious crime. And you sat down to lunch on Sunday, looked me straight in the eye, and told me he’d been unfairly fired. You tried to make me feel guilty so I’d pay his legal bail without telling me how much it was.”
“We were protecting him!” Mom shouted, taking a step forward to grab my arm. I pulled away. “He made a mistake, Mabel. He’s young. If he has a record, his life is over. He won’t be able to get a decent job.”
“He can’t get a decent job anymore because he’s lazy and entitled,” I yelled, my voice finally breaking. “And instead of letting him face the consequences, you tried to steal my money to cover up his crime.”
“It’s family money,” Dad yelled. “You have more than you need. Why do you want to see your brother in jail? What kind of sister are you?”
“The kind who doesn’t want to be an ATM anymore,” I said, pointing to the door. “Get out of here.” “No,” Jason said, coming toward me. His face was contorted. “Not until you give me the money. I’m not going to jail because you’re a greedy hoarder. You owe me this. You’ve always had it easy. Perfect grades, perfect work, you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I yelled back. “I worked for everything I have. While you were partying, I was studying. While you were buying cars you couldn’t afford, I was saving.”
“Give him the money, Mabel,” Dad ordered, stepping between us, his physical presence looming over me. “I’m your father, and I’m telling you to sign the check now.”
“What if I don’t?” I challenged him.
“Then you’re not my daughter,” he spat. “And don’t expect to ever come back here.”
“That,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my cell phone, “is the best offer you’ve made all day.” I held up the phone. The screen was recording.
“Get out of my house,” I said in a low, dangerous voice, “or I’ll send this recording to the police myself. And Jason will go to jail for extortion, in addition to the robbery.”
Jason shuddered. Dad looked at the phone and then at me, his eyes filled with a cold, deep hatred I’d never seen before.
“You’re bragging,” Jason said, but his voice trembled.
“Try me,” I said. “I have nothing to lose. You’ve already made sure of that.”
They left, but not before Dad kicked a crate of my dishes as he left, the sound of shattering china echoing through the empty house. I didn’t sleep that night. I sat on the floor, phone in hand, waiting for the police to arrive or for them to come back with a brick. But the night remained quiet. The next morning, I boarded my flight to Seattle. As the plane took off, watching the gray grid of my hometown disappear into the clouds, I thought I would feel relief. Instead, I felt a deep, sickening fear. I knew them. I knew that shame was the only thing that motivated them more than money. I had humiliated them. They wouldn’t let it go. I was right. Two weeks later, I was settling into my new apartment in Seattle. It was a beautiful apartment with glass walls and a view of the strait. I was starting to breathe again. Then the email arrived. It was from the human resources department at my company. Subject: Urgent complaint regarding professional conduct. My stomach clenched. I opened it. It was a notification that a concerned relative had contacted the company alleging that I had embezzled funds from a family trust and fled the state to avoid prosecution. Jason. I immediately called the head of human resources to explain the situation and offer bank statements, legal documents, and the police report I had filed regarding the harassment. Because my company knew me and Jason’s email was written in frantic, almost iterative prose, they believed me. But the humiliation of having my personal drama spill over into my professional life was unbearable. But it didn’t end there. Three days later, I received a call from a number I didn’t recognize.
“Is this Mabel?” a stern voice asked.
“Yes.”
