Trevor never helped.
Not once.
He never offered, never apologized, never even pretended to care.
That didn’t stop him from calling me one Wednesday afternoon—his voice sharp enough to bruise.
“You really think you’re some kind of saint, Delaney,” he sneered. “You send Mom money and expect a medal? Please. You’re just buying forgiveness and waiting for your inheritance.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I was sitting in my car outside the grocery store, hands frozen on the steering wheel, the world suddenly off-balance.
“I’m trying to help her,” I said, my voice betraying me.
He laughed. Not amused—mocking.
“Nobody helps for free. Drop the hero act. You’re the worst sister I’ve ever had.”
Then I heard her.
My mother’s voice—raised, unmistakable, cruel in a way I’d never heard to my face.
