I sat in a sun-drenched cafe in downtown Atlanta, watching Lily draw in a new sketchbook. We were living in a beautiful, three-bedroom apartment in a high-rise that I actually enjoyed. There were no ghosts here, no heavy furniture, no ” Martha’s heirlooms” that were actually lies. There was only light and peace.
The “Sterling Empire” had collapsed with devastating speed. Without my monthly “family tax,” the reality of their situation had set in within forty-eight hours.
My private investigator had sent me an update this morning. Margaret and Vanessa were living in a cramped, budget motel on the outskirts of the city. The room, according to the photos, smelled of old carpets and desperation. Vanessa sat on the edge of a stained bed, her designer clothes now wrinkled and out of style because she couldn’t afford the dry cleaning. She was staring at a job application for a entry-level retail position—the kind of job she used to mock with a cruel, rhythmic consistency.
“Did she answer the email?” Margaret’s voice was audible on a recording the investigator had captured. She looked smaller, older, her skin sallow without her expensive facials.