“Thank you.” I feel heat prick at the corners of my eyes and redirect it fast. This man is not generous with his praise.
“I wish more people in this family had a head for business like you,” he adds flatly, before glancing past me. “Excuse me, I see someone I need to speak with.”
And with that, he walks off.
No hug. No smile. But I feel more affirmed by those four sentences than I have in years of trying to impress this family. I glance down at my unmanicured nails, and for a moment, Ibelongin this world of manicured perfection.
That warmth carries me into the backyard—right into the oncoming storm I never saw coming.
I spot Sam near the side garden, talking to Holly and Mandy. His back is to me, so he doesn't see me approach. The property developer Sam was talking to earlier stands beside Holly. She laughs a bit too loudly at a man I presumeis Rick Saunder’s, joke. She brushes her hair back, wanting everyone to notice.
And then I hear her voice:
“Sammy, thank you again for the $75,000 startup loan. It’s going to make such a difference. Now that the lease is signed, I can’t wait for you to start remodeling the salon in two weeks!”
The world tilts.
$75,000
That’sourcabin fund. Our scraped-together, late-night side job, skipped vacations, save-every-damn-penny fund. And building her salon? Two weeks? I thought he said his Briarwood project was delaying cabin construction.
Before I can move, Sam responds.
“No problem, sis. I’m so proud of everything you’ve overcome. I’d do anything to help you make this dream happen. It’s only money. I would do anything for one of my favorite girls.”
Mandy giggles at that statement, sliding closer to Sam.
"I am up there as well, right?" she questions, leaning in too close.
"Of course, I should have said two of my favorite girls."
Only money? Two of hisfavorite girls?
Only my sore feet from catering events. My clipped coupons and thrifted sweaters. The honeymoon we postponed … The life we’ve been building, one sacrifice at a time. That money is my Xanax, my security blanket.
And heonlygave my security away.
Mandy chimes in. “Is Becca okay with this?”
A small part of me wants to thank her. At least someone is thinking about me. But then I see her face, and I know she doesn’t mean it for my benefit. There's a flicker of something behind her eyes—calculation.
Sam laughs. “I haven’t talked to her yet. But it’s my money. I was able to make the transfer, wasn’t I? Besides, she gets it; she sends money to her family too.”
He. Did. Not.
Yes, I help my family sometimes. From mypersonalmoney. The five percent we each put aside into our personal accounts each paycheck to spend on whatever we want. I only send small amounts. Bridge-the-gap help when rent is tight.
Not seventy-five grand. And definitely notourshared future.
The man I don’t know, but suspect is Rick, chuckles. “Women always think they’re entitled to our money. Hope you got a prenup, man. Especially with the ones who come from … less.”
I freeze. The house I painted, the garden I kept alive, the mortgage payments I helped make. Suddenly, in one sentence, none of it feels like mine anymore.
Sam laughs. “Nah, not worried. The house and the business are in my name. If she left me, she’d have nowhere to go.”
Nowhere to go?Like I’m a guest in my own life.
Nowhere to go … Let’s test that theory.
