She looked older. Not just older in the normal way—tired older. New lines around her eyes. Her hair thinner. Her smile hesitant.
“Lara,” she said, voice shaky. “Thank you for coming.”
Behind her, the living room was staged like an intervention. My father sat in his usual chair, face grim. Clara sat on the couch beside Michael, eyes red and puffy like she’d been crying for hours. Michael’s arm was around her shoulder, protective and theatrical.
They all looked at me like I was the missing piece they’d been waiting to snap back into place.
“What’s going on?” I asked, staying standing. I didn’t want to get comfortable. Comfort in this house used to be a trap.
My mother’s eyes filled immediately.
“It’s about Clara,” she said. “She’s in serious trouble.”
Clara stared at her hands. My father cleared his throat.
“Her business went under three months ago,” he said. “The bank took the house. She owes money to… people.”
I felt a flicker of vindication that I hated. I didn’t want Clara to fail. I just wanted my family to stop treating my responsibility like it was to clean up after her.
“I’m sorry,” I said carefully. “That’s awful. But what does it have to do with me?”