The dining room erupted. Forks clattered against plates as people shifted in their seats. Aunt Patricia’s hand flew to her mouth. Grandmother Elellanar gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white.
“How dare you record private conversations?” Martha shrieked, but James held up his hand.
“There’s more.”
He continued scrolling to another file. This time it was Robert’s voice.
“We trained Crystal well. She’s been paying Emma’s way since high school. Why should that stop? Now Emma knows how to work the guilt. She’s got years of practice.”
My stomach churned. The pies I’d lovingly made that morning now seemed like offerings to people who saw me as nothing more than a checking account with legs. Nathan’s hand found mine, squeezing gently, but I could feel him trembling with anger.
“Is this true, Emma?” Grandmother Elellanar’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and disappointed. “Have you been manipulating your sister?”
Emma finally looked up from her phone, and I was shocked to see not guilt, but irritation on her face.
“It’s not manipulation. Mom and Dad said Crystal wanted to help, that it made her feel good to support me.”
“I never said that,” I protested, my voice cracking. “I helped because you told me you’d be evicted, that you couldn’t afford food, that you were desperate.”
