My father walked out looking twenty years older, shoulders slumped.
“It’s gone, Brooklyn.”
“But what am I supposed to drive?”
“Take the bus.”
I almost laughed.
Brooklyn’s Instagram account died overnight when her followers learned she’d been funded by stolen retirement money. She deleted everything and got a job at the mall. Folding shirts. Minimum wage.
My parents sold the estate. After paying back Kevin, the trust fund, and legal fees, they had almost nothing. They moved to a two-bedroom condo—normal people in a normal place.
Their social circle evaporated. No one wanted to associate with embezzlers.
I saw my mother once at the grocery store, pushing her own cart, checking prices, choosing generic brands.
She saw me. Looked at me with sad eyes. Then looked at the floor and turned her cart around.
She was ashamed.
For the first time in her life, she felt shame.
It’s been two months since the party.
I still live in my small apartment. I like it here. It feels like mine.
The court repaid my trust fund. I have $500,000 in the bank.
I didn’t buy a Mercedes or designer clothes. I paid off my student loans and credit card debt. Put the rest away.
It’s my freedom fund. I never have to be dependent on anyone again.
I sit at my desk on a Saturday morning. Sun shining through the window. I open my laptop.
The folder “The Truth” is still on my desktop. I look at the files one last time: the invoice, the bank logs, the email.
It’s history now. A story about a different person who wanted to be loved by people who couldn’t love her.
I don’t need these files anymore.
I select the folder. Right-click.
Delete.
Are you sure you want to delete “The Truth”?
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