Every unpaid bill.
Every holiday where Clare cooked while Tessa sat at the table complaining.
Every year they forgot our anniversary but expected us at Tessa’s birthday dinner.
Every time my father mocked my restaurants as “burger joints” while happily letting those “burger joints” fund the house he slept in.
I could have written a novel.
Instead, I wrote:
It’s about the fact that you forgot who I am because I made your lives too easy.
Nobody replied for almost five minutes.
Then Tessa wrote:
You’re doing this because you hate me. Admit it.
Clare looked over my shoulder.
“Don’t answer.”
“I’m not going to.”
Because that was the trap.
People like Tessa desperately wanted every consequence converted into an emotional feud.
If I hated her, then the sale was revenge.
If it was revenge, then she was a victim.
If she was a victim, then she didn’t have to examine what she had done.
