Courtney scoffed. “Oh, stop. You’re acting like some victim because Mom put your name on a guest list.”
I looked at her.
“It was not a guest list.”
I slid the page across the table.
Courtney snatched it up.
For the first time that evening, her arrogance faltered.
“What is this?”
“A vendor authorization form. With my forged signature.”
My mother whispered, “Madeline.”
I ignored her.
“Briar Glen received it three weeks ago. It authorized a nonrefundable event deposit of seventy-five thousand dollars to be billed to an account under my business name.”
Courtney looked at Patricia.
“Mom?”
Patricia’s eyes stayed on me.
“You were always so dramatic about money.”
That sentence did something to me.
For years, I had thought rage was loud. Hot. Explosive.
But real rage, the kind that has been aging quietly behind your ribs, is almost peaceful when it arrives.
I stood.
The room held its breath again.
“You used my name to book a charity event at a club you thought would reject me at the door,” I said. “You forged my signature, mocked my business, lied about my mental health, stole from me, and then demanded I be removed from property I own.”
My mother’s nostrils flared.
“You forget who raised you.”