She thrust her chin forward, eyes bright with righteous anger that had nothing to do with justice and everything to do with being denied.
“As a human being,” she spat, “you’re beyond saving.”
My mother slid an arm around Kristen’s shoulders protectively, eyes narrowed at me as if I were the aggressor.
“Denise,” she said softly, the tragic-heroine tone she used when she wanted to shame me in the gentlest possible way, “you see, Kristen is preparing to launch a new apparel brand using this house as her base. Having an address in such an upscale neighborhood will earn her credibility with business partners.”
She smiled faintly, like she’d offered an elegant solution. “Do you really have the right to crush your sister’s dream?”
I looked at their faces, and something in me went strangely calm.
They meant it.
They genuinely believed my house was a family asset. They believed my success was a collective victory they could distribute. In their minds, my work, my money, my privacy—these were resources the family had earned through the mere act of being related to me.