Chapter 1 - The Handbag on the Counter
“Prom dresses are a ridiculous waste of money.”
Carla did not bother looking up from her phone when she said it. She sat at the kitchen island beneath the warm pendant lights, scrolling with one manicured finger while I stood across from her holding the prom information sheet I had carried home from school.
The deposit deadline was Friday. Prom was three weeks away.
“I don’t need anything expensive,” I said. “Mom left money for school events and graduation.”
That made Carla look up.
My stepmother’s expression sharpened whenever I mentioned my mother, Rachel, as though death had turned Mom into a rival Carla still needed to defeat.
“That money keeps this house running, Emma.”
“It was left for Noah and me.”
“And who pays the mortgage? Who buys groceries? Who kept everything together after your father died?”
Before I could answer, Carla laughed and returned to her phone.
“Besides, no one wants to watch you parade around in some overdone princess costume.”
Then she placed a brand-new designer handbag on the counter between us.
The gold store tag still hung from one handle. I recognized the boutique because its window displays showed bags that cost more than my first semester of community college.
Carla noticed me looking.
“This is different,” she said. “Adults need to maintain appearances.”
My father, Michael, had died from a heart attack eleven months earlier. Since Noah and I were both minors, Carla became our legal guardian and took control of the household accounts. She also gained temporary access to the education and milestone fund Mom had created before dying from cancer six years earlier.
Mom had been precise about money. She kept labeled envelopes, saved every receipt, and wrote instructions for expenses most people would never think to mention.
School supplies.
Music lessons.
Graduation fees.
College applications.
One formal school event for each child.
There should have been more than enough money for a simple dress.
But Carla always had an explanation for why the account was suddenly unavailable.
Roof repairs.
Insurance.
Property taxes.
Unexpected bills.
That afternoon, I folded the prom flyer and placed it in the trash.
“No dress,” Carla said. “No argument.”
May you like
I went upstairs before she could see me cry.
What I did not know was that my fifteen-year-old brother had heard everything from the hallway.
