“You are only calling now because your parents ran out of money,” I stated, the truth ringing clear and undeniable in the quiet room.
“Your parents chose their path, Clara. And through your silence, you chose yours. You chose the party and the luxury over me. Now, live with that choice. I love you, but the foolish grandmother who paid for everything died at the gates of your wedding.”
I hung up the phone.
The new balance of power was set in stone.
The thirty days passed. Richard and Susan couldn’t afford a lawyer, and they couldn’t afford to fight the eviction. They surrendered the keys to the apartment and the beach house on the very last day. According to my neighbor, Mrs. Martha, they had to take out a high-interest loan just to rent a cramped, one-bedroom apartment in a noisy suburb. Susan was forced to sell her designer handbags online to buy groceries. Richard was taking the bus to his failing agency.
I didn’t feel pity. I felt peace.
I sold the luxury apartment within a week for a massive profit. I didn’t hoard the money. I used it to fund a no-kill animal shelter on the outskirts of the city—a dream Robert and I had shared decades ago. Martin handled the legal paperwork pro-bono, claiming it was the best work he had done in years.
Two months later, my doorbell rang.
I looked through the peephole. It was Clara. But she wasn’t the radiant, spoiled bride anymore. She looked exhausted, wearing plain jeans, carrying a single duffel bag.
I opened the door. “Clara.”
