The crowd laughed, even his mom. I just left. A few days later, I did something that made them panic-text me nonstop.
I wanted to flip the entire table. Every insult, every laugh, every glance that passed between them like a private joke. I felt it like a slap.
And yet, I didn’t shout. I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw my glass or storm out like some tragic character in a second-rate drama.
I just stood there, silent, while my nephew, the same kid whose rent, tuition, and groceries I paid for, called me a sad aunt who buys love. They all laughed. My brother.
His wife. Even my mother tried to cover her mouth like that would make it better. No one looked shocked, just amused, like it was all finally said out loud.
I left before I did something I’d regret. But as I drove home, one thought curled around my mind like smoke. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
I could have cut them off then and there, but I didn’t want revenge that burned fast and bright. I wanted it to unfold slowly, beautifully, like a lesson carefully taught. The boy wanted to humiliate me in front of everyone.
Fine. But it was time he learned who held the leash he’d been chewing on. See, what none of them seemed to remember was that Chase’s shiny apartment two states away, the one near campus with central air and a fitness center, was in my name.
He couldn’t even legally rent it without me. I’d found it, paid the deposit, and arranged everything. His parents didn’t lift a finger.
That night, while they were probably still passing around leftover ribs and giggling about how Aunt Grace finally cracked, I was on the phone with the landlord. He was polite, confused, but cooperative. I offered to pay an additional month and a relisting fee if they could have the unit cleared out within the week.
By morning, the paperwork was signed. Chase would be getting his notice by email and a knock on the door. When I woke up the next day, I had twenty-two unread messages.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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