A few days later, a notification lit up my phone.
Mom had transferred eighty thousand dollars.
I stared at it for a long time.
*Pride says send it back. Reality says take it.*
I needed money. Desperately.
I accepted the transfer. Then I wrote a formal IOU and mailed it to her.
Her call came immediately.
"Isabella, that money is a gift. Keep it. There's no need for—"
"We need to keep the accounts clear." My voice was flat. "I will pay you back."
A sigh. She knew she couldn't win this one. So she pivoted.
"Charlotte feels terrible. She thinks she's the reason your relationship with your father is strained. She wants to apologize in person. Can you make time for a meal?"
Eighty thousand dollars sat in my account. The refusal died in my throat.
A transaction. Take the money, endure the dinner.
"Fine. Send me the time and address."
---
I rearranged my schedule and took a taxi to the restaurant.
But when I pushed open the private room door, my stomach dropped.
Dad sat at the head of the table, relaxed and authoritative. Beside him—Uncle Tyler. My second aunt.
My gaze cut to Mom.
She ducked her head, avoiding me, but her hand clamped around my wrist and dragged me to a chair.
"Sit," she whispered.