By Thursday, Kendra’s messages had turned wild.
Her car payment was due, I was ruining Nora’s life, Charlotte had always been jealous, and Mom was right that I thought money made me better than everyone else.
I answered once: Do not contact me except by email about children’s belongings.
Then I saved everything she sent after that.
On Friday afternoon, the pounding started.
Charlotte had been coloring at the kitchen table.
The first bang made her drop the green crayon.
I checked the doorbell camera.
My mother stood on the porch in a beige trench coat, and Kendra stood beside her with a folder under one arm.
For one second, the old me tried to rise.
The daughter trained to smooth everything over.
The sister trained to pay first and cry later.
Then Charlotte whispered, “Are they bringing the police again?”
The old me disappeared.
I told Charlotte to stand behind the hallway table where she could see me but did not have to be seen.
