“Rachel, what relationship? They took over my house without asking. My mother said I was easy to manage. My brother called me pathologically non-confrontational. That isn’t a relationship. That is an arrangement where I absorb whatever they throw at me.”
Rachel nodded.
Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a USB drive.
“Backup of everything,” she said. “Video files, email screenshots, Marcus’s letter. Just in case.”
I took it.
“Thank you.”
“One more thing,” she said. “Do not apologize when you’re up there. Not once. They did this. You’re just showing people what they did.”
I hugged her.
The next evening, Donna Seward’s carefully constructed world met reality.
Hillcrest Country Club looked exactly the way my mother had dreamed it would.
Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across white linen tablecloths. A string quartet played near the bar. Gold balloons spelled out 60 above a three-tier cake decorated with sugar flowers. The Hillcrest logo appeared on napkins, welcome signs, and little chocolate squares at each place setting.
