Chapter 4 - A Lukewarm Cup of Decaf
My mother walked into the room carrying a cardboard drink carrier holding a half-empty decaf latte. She wore an expensive designer vest, immaculate white sneakers, and an expression of utter, performative exhaustion.
Behind her shuffled my father, his polo shirt wrinkled, rubbing the back of his neck as if he had just carried the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.
"Miranda!" Mom gasped, rushing toward the bed with dramatic flair, though she stopped short of actually touching my bruised arms. "Oh, darling, look at you! You gave us such an awful scare! We’ve been worried sick all afternoon!"
Julian Vance slowly turned around from his vantage point by the rain-streaked window. My father stopped dead in his tracks upon recognizing Julian's towering frame.
I stared at my mother. Her eyeliner was fresh. Her hair had been professionally blown out that morning. There was not a trace of genuine panic on her face—only the irritated exasperation of a parent whose evening plans had been slightly derailed.
"Did you?" I asked, my voice flat, devoid of the emotion I usually wasted on them. "Did you worry sick while you were picking paint swatches for Lauren's kitchen?"
Mom's eyes flickered with instant annoyance, though she quickly tried to mask it with maternal condescension. "Now don't be dramatic, Miranda. We told you this morning, Lauren's movers were completely incompetent. They dropped an entire crate of her imported crystal! The poor girl was on the verge of a full panic attack. We couldn't just abandon your sister in the middle of a move!"
"I was in surgery, Mom."
"And the doctors handled it brilliantly, didn't they?" Dad chimed in, leaning against the radiator with folded arms. "Look at you! You're awake. You're talking. We knew you'd be fine, honey. You’ve always been the strong one. Lauren gets overwhelmed so easily. You know how delicate her anxiety is."
"I called you nine times," I said, counting each one on my left hand. "Nine times between 2:00 p.m. and 6:00 p.m. My blood pressure crashed twice. The surgeon needed someone to authorize a secondary exploratory procedure because they suspected a torn artery."
Mom waved her hand dismissively, setting her coffee cup down on the stainless steel bedside table. "Well, my phone was buried in my purse while we were assembling the master bed frame. Besides, you have great medical insurance. What could we have possibly done that the doctors couldn't? You're thirty-four, Miranda, not a child."
She finally glanced over at Julian, noticing the thick binder of paperwork and the notary just slipping out the room.
"Julian?" Dad asked, frowning with sudden suspicion. "What are you doing here at ten o'clock at night? Is Miranda's company having an issue?"
"No, Arthur," Julian replied in a cool, detached tone that cut through the room like a scalpel. "Her company is doing exceptionally well. I was here on personal business."
"Personal business?" Mom laughed nervously, smoothing down her vest. "What personal business could possibly require an estate lawyer in the middle of the night? Miranda, you aren't doing something ridiculous with the Lake George house, are you? Because your father and I already promised the Henderson family we’d host the annual Fourth of July gala up there."
I looked at the mother who had given me life, and then at the father who had taught me how to drive, and realized they saw me not as a daughter, but as a utility. A walking trust fund.
"You won't be hosting any galas," I said quietly.
May you like
Mom blinked, clearly thrown off. "Excuse me?"
"You won't be hosting the gala because the lake house is being listed for sale tomorrow morning," I said, meeting her eyes without wavering. "And you won't be using my accounts anymore. None of you."
