“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I said I don’t want them.”
My stepmother lowered her voice.
“You will not embarrass me in my own house.”
Those words hit differently.
My own house.
I didn’t know then how important they were.
My stepmother pushed the box toward her daughter.
My stepsister backed away.
I reached down for my school backpack.
I wanted to leave.
Upstairs.
Bathroom.
Closet.
Anywhere with a door.
My stepmother noticed.
“Where are you going?”
“My room.”
“We’re not finished.”
“I am.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Excuse me?”
I hated confrontation.
She knew that.
She used it.
I bent for the backpack.
Her heel caught the strap before my hand reached it.
She pushed it away with her shoe.
Not hard.
But deliberately.
The backpack slid across the marble floor.
One of my notebooks came halfway out.
“Don’t walk away while I’m speaking.”
My face burned.
My stepsister whispered:
“Mom, stop.”
I straightened.
“What do you want me to say?”
My stepmother folded her arms.
“That you understand the difference between expectation and entitlement.”
I stared at her.
“I asked if you bought me anything.”
“Exactly.”
“You stood there watching my children receive things and assumed you were owed the same.”
My children.
There it was again.
My stepbrother looked up.
“Mom.”
She ignored him.
I said:
“I didn’t say I was owed anything.”
“Your face did.”
I laughed once.
It came out wrong.
She stepped closer.
“You already have advantages they don’t have.”
I blinked.
“What advantages?”
She stared at me as though I had asked something offensive.
“Your mother left you money.”
I had heard that before.
Usually when I wanted something ordinary.
A new phone because mine had cracked.
“Your mother left you money.”
A school trip.
“Your mother left you money.”
A nicer winter coat.
“Your mother left you money.”
Except I had never seen the money.
I knew there was a trust.
That was all.
My father said it was for college and adulthood.
Whenever I asked, he told me not to worry.
My stepmother used it differently.
As proof I needed less from the family I was living with.
I looked at the expensive jacket.
Then the sneakers.
Then the bags.
“My trust didn’t buy me anything.”
My stepmother smiled.
“You have no idea what your trust does.”
The front doors opened behind her.
A man’s voice said:
“She’s right.”
My stepmother froze.
So did I.
My father stood just inside the entrance.
He was still wearing the charcoal suit he used for work.
His tie had been loosened.
His face looked exhausted.
Beside him stood a Black woman in her fifties wearing a navy trouser suit and carrying a thick leather folder and a sealed archival document box.