… standing on a stepladder, laughing as he hung a massive, crystal chandelier.
I dropped the coffee tray. The sound of cups exploding on the floor made them jump. The stranger—who turned out to be an interior designer holding fabric swatches—looked incredibly awkward.
My dad didn’t look frail. He didn’t look like a man with a failing heart. He looked tan, healthy, and was wearing a brand-new designer watch.
“Eliana?” My mom walked in from the kitchen, holding a glass of champagne. She froze when she saw the puddle of latte on her new hardwood floors.
“You’re sick,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I ate instant ramen for eight months. I cancelled my gym membership. I almost got evicted twice so I could send you money for ‘life-saving’ surgery.”
My dad climbed down from the ladder. He didn’t look guilty; he looked annoyed.
“Oh, stop being dramatic,” he scoffed, wiping his hands on a rag. “We never said I was dying. We said I had a condition. Stress is a condition. And being broke is stressful. We sacrificed everything to raise you; we figured it was time for our return on investment.”
I looked around. The “messy house” they wouldn’t let me visit wasn’t messy—it was a construction zone for a luxury renovation funded entirely by my salary. The stranger on the couch was helping them pick out curtains that cost more than my car.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just took a picture of the room, focused clearly on my “dying” father standing next to the designer.
“What are you doing?” Mom asked, stepping forward.
“Gathering evidence,” I said calmly.
I turned around, walked out the door, and blocked their numbers before I even started my car. I served them with a lawsuit for fraud the following week. I might not get all the money back, but the look on their faces when they realized their ‘retirement fund’ had just cut them off forever? Priceless.
