“She’s ungrateful,” she snapped in the background. “Always acting superior. Tell her to stop playing the victim.”
The air left my lungs.
In person, she thanked me. Kissed my cheek. Held my hands and said she didn’t know how she’d survive without me.
Now I wondered which version of her was real.
That night, I drove straight to her house in Redwood Springs, Nevada, convinced there had to be a misunderstanding. The porch light flickered. The desert wind rattled the bushes. My heartbeat drowned out everything else.
She opened the door with a scowl.
Her eyes were cold. Polished. Empty.
“I don’t want your money anymore,” she snapped. “And I don’t want your attitude. Leave.”
I stared at her. “Mom… what did I do? Please—just tell me.”
“You treat me like a burden,” she hissed. “You think your little payments give you the right to judge us. You’re arrogant.”
