Not a real laugh. One of those small, sharp ones meant to cut.
“That money keeps this house running now,” she said. “And honestly? No one wants to see you prancing around in some overpriced princess costume.”
Then she tossed her brand-new designer handbag onto the counter.
The tag was still hanging from it.
I stared at it.
“So there’s money for that?” I asked.
Her chair scraped across the floor when she stood up.
“Watch your tone.”
“You’re using our money.”
Her voice went cold.
“I’m keeping this family afloat. You have no idea what things cost.”
“Then why did Dad say it was ours?”
She shrugged.
“Your father was bad with money. And bad with boundaries.”
I went upstairs and cried into my pillow like I was twelve again.
I heard Noah outside my door but he didn’t come in.
He’s always been quiet like that.
Two nights later he knocked on my door holding a stack of old denim.
Mom’s jeans.
She used to collect them.
He dropped them on my bed and said, “Do you trust me?”
I looked at him. “With what?”
“I took sewing last year. Remember?”
I blinked.
Continued on the next page
