Chapter 2 - The Table of Scorpions
"Mom?" I asked, my voice dropping the teasing lilt, turning flat as ice. "What did Aunt Clara just say?"
A chaotic scuffle erupted through the receiver. I heard silverware clattering against porcelain, the muffled thud of someone dropping a heavy chair, and Lauren’s frantic, high-pitched voice whining in the background, *"Aunt Clara, stop reading that! Put that down right now! That’s private family business!"*
*"Private business my foot!"* Uncle Dave’s booming baritone joined Clara’s. *"Elaine, you stood in my living room at Thanksgiving and bragged that Lauren was an executive angel who took over your house notes so Martin wouldn't have a heart attack! You let us buy her a five-hundred-dollar Tiffany bracelet as a thank-you gift for saving the family!"*
Mom breathed heavily into the phone, completely ignoring them, her fury entirely focused on me. "Natalie, you listen to me, you vindictive little sociopath! You deliberately sent this courier here while Brett’s parents were sitting at our dining table! Do you have any idea what you've done? Brett’s father is a bank vice president! Do you know how low-class this makes us look?!"
"I don't give a damn about Brett's parents, Mom," I said, my knuckles turning white around my phone. "Did you tell the family that Lauren was paying your mortgage?"
"It was an arrangement!" Mom hissed, her voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper as she clearly tried to step into a hallway or bathroom to escape the growing riot in the dining room. "It was for Lauren’s reputation! She's marrying into a high-society family, Natalie! Brett's family needed to see that she comes from wealth, that she's generous, that she has substantial executive assets! You don't need the credit! You don't have anyone to impress!"
"I paid one hundred and twelve thousand dollars of my hard-earned money to keep a roof over your head, and you gave the credit to Lauren?"
The sheer audacity took the air out of my lungs.
Lauren was twenty-eight. She worked part-time as a social media coordinator for a boutique PR agency—a job my father had pulled strings to get her. She drove an entry-level leased BMW she couldn't afford, wore designer clothes bought on maxed-out credit cards, and spent her weekends playing tennis at the country club where she’d managed to hook Brett Hastings, an heir to a regional logistics firm.
"It shouldn't matter to you who gets the credit if you actually loved us!" Mom spat, the classic narcissistic manipulation dripping from every syllable. "A real daughter gives out of the goodness of her heart! You only did it to hold it over our heads! You’ve always been jealous of Lauren, ever since you were little girls! You couldn't stand that she was the pretty one, the popular one, the one everyone adored!"
"Where is the trophy, Mom?" I interrupted coldly.
The line went dead silent.
"What?" Mom whispered.
"The trophy," I repeated, standing up and walking toward my floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the light snow dust the Columbus streetlamps below. "The dollar-store Family Disappointment Award. The one you and Lauren laughed about while standing in your kitchen yesterday afternoon. The tiara? The sad violin music for TikTok? Did Brett's parents get to see that too, or was that meant solely for my benefit?"
Mom choked back a gasp. For the first time in thirty-five years, I heard genuine panic crack through Elaine Brooks’ polished veneer.
"You... you were there?" she stammered.
"I brought you gingerbread cookies. I left them by the front door. Right next to the coat rack." My voice was eerily calm, the calm of someone who had survived an emotional car crash and walked away without a scratch while the vehicle exploded behind her. "I heard every word. You wanted to humiliate me. You wanted to make me dance for your amusement before I handed you another two-thousand-dollar check."
"Natalie, darling, listen to me..." Mom’s voice shifted instantly, pivoting with horrifying speed from snarling viper to pleading victim. "You misunderstood. It was a gag! We love you! Lauren was just joking around, you know how dramatic she is! It was sisterly teasing!"
"Sisterly teasing is hiding someone's favorite sweater, Mom. Framing me as an unlovable, barren failure while laundering my money into Lauren's social pedigree is fraud."
*"Elaine! Get out here right now!"* Aunt Clara’s voice thundered so loudly in the background that I could hear it through Mom’s closed door. *"Brett’s mother just asked if the mortgage default notice inside this folder is real! Is this house going into foreclosure?!"*
"I have to go!" Mom whispered frantically. "Cancel this, Natalie! Call the bank tomorrow morning and tell them it was an error! If you ruin Lauren’s engagement, I swear to God I will never speak to you again!"
"Don't threaten me with a good time, Elaine," I said.
I hung up.
I didn't toss the phone. I didn't cry. I set it gently on the island counter, took another sip of wine, and watched my screen light up.
The family group chat—which had been dormant for two days—was currently experiencing a nuclear meltdown.
*Aunt Clara: [Image of the red box and bank statements spread across the Brooks dining table]*
*Aunt Clara: Care to explain this, Elaine? Because according to Chase Bank, every dime from 2020 to last week came from an account ending in 4109. That’s Natalie’s account. Lauren hasn’t paid a single red cent!*
*Uncle Dave: Martin, answer your damn phone. You let me lend you ten grand two years ago because you said Lauren couldn't carry the whole house alone! Was that a lie too?!*
*Brett Hastings (Lauren’s Fiancé): Lauren, my parents are leaving. We need to talk outside. Right now.*
*Lauren: Natalie, you psychotic bitch, you ruined my life! I hope you die alone in that cold apartment!*
I read Lauren’s message twice. I felt no rage. No sorrow. Only an overwhelming sense of liberation. The invisible chains that had tethered my bank account and my soul to that toxic house had just snapped clean in half.
Then my phone buzzed again. A private text. Not from Mom, not from Lauren.
May you like
*Dad: Natalie. Please. Don't look at the chat anymore. Call me from a burner or a secure line tomorrow. You don't know the whole story. Elaine has done something terrible.*
***
