“I’m on medical leave,” I said, though my voice shook so badly it barely sounded like my own. “My doctor—”
“Doctors love excuses,” Evelyn said, folding her arms, her mouth tightening. “My generation didn’t stop working because of swollen ankles.”
The water pooled beneath me, spreading across the tile, creeping under my legs, soaking into my clothes, and I realized with detached horror that my entire body was shaking uncontrollably.
“I need a towel,” I whispered. “I’m cold. Please.”
She smiled then, a thin, humorless curve of her lips that never reached her eyes. “You need motivation.”
And then she said the thing that changed everything.
“My son works himself into the ground while you drain his accounts and lie around dreaming of nurseries you didn’t pay for.”
My heart stuttered. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, it is,” she said calmly. “And since you’re clearly unfit to manage money—or motherhood—you’re going to transfer the savings back where it belongs.”
She pulled her phone from her pocket and held it out, screen glowing.
