Chapter 7 - Chloe Tells the Truth
Chloe came to my apartment eleven days after the engagement party.
She looked different without makeup and borrowed confidence. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, her eyes swollen, her coat too thin for the weather. She held no purse that I recognized. No designer logo. No wineglass. No performance.
Ethan answered the door.
He did not invite her in until I nodded.
Chloe stood in the entryway.
“I’m not here to ask for money.”
I waited.
She swallowed.
“I’m here to tell you what Mom did.”
I folded my arms.
“Which part?”
Her face crumpled.
“All of it, I think.”
We sat at the kitchen table.
Chloe kept both hands around a mug of tea she did not drink.
“She told me Dad wanted the money used for family emergencies,” Chloe said. “She said you were hoarding it because you liked having power over us.”
I said nothing.
“She told me if you really loved Dad, you would take care of us the way he did.”
That one hurt.
Because it sounded like something my mother would know how to weaponize.
Chloe continued.
“When I asked why she didn’t have access, she said the attorney made a mistake after Dad died. She said she tried to correct it, but you made everyone feel sorry for you.”
I stared at the table.
“I was nineteen.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She nodded, crying now.
“I do now.”
She reached into her coat and pulled out a folded packet.
“Mom gave me this two years ago. She said if you ever refused to help, I should remind you there was paperwork proving the fund was supposed to support both of us.”
I unfolded the packet.
It was a photocopy of the disputed form.
The forged one.
My mother had not buried it.
She had kept copies.
And handed one to Chloe as a weapon for later.
Ethan muttered, “Jesus.”
Chloe wiped her face.
“I didn’t look closely. I just believed her.”
“That’s what you always do.”
She flinched.
I did not apologize.
“She made it easy,” Chloe said.
“Yes.”
“And I let her.”
“Yes.”
For once, Chloe did not cry harder to escape the answer.
She nodded.
“I’m moving out of Mom’s house.”
That surprised me.
“When?”
“Friday. My friend Marcy has a room. I got a second job at the pharmacy.”
I watched her carefully.
“Good.”
“I’m scared.”
“I believe you.”
“I know I don’t deserve help from you.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t.”
Her mouth trembled.
“But I can give you something else.”
I took the packet.
“What?”
“The truth. To Victor. To whoever needs it.”
That was the first useful thing Chloe had offered me in years.
Not because it repaired us.
Because it cost her something.
“Okay,” I said.
She looked almost relieved.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
She stood to leave, then paused at the door.
“Natalie?”
I looked up.
May you like
“I’m sorry I let Mom make your grief look selfish.”
That sentence stayed in the room long after she left.
