The Family Bill
By the time I turned into my grandfather’s neighborhood, the sky over the Atlanta suburbs had settled into that heavy, colorless gray that makes everything feel quieter than it really is. I drove slowly down the familiar street, past the brick mailbox with the bronze “ARTHUR HARRIS” plaque, and into the long circular driveway. The asphalt was already crowded with cars.
SUVs I recognized from Christmases and graduations. My aunt Marianne’s red sedan. My cousin Tyler’s pickup.
The sight of them didn’t make me feel welcome. It made my stomach clench. I parked at the end and sat there with my hands still on the steering wheel.
The house loomed ahead—three stories, pale stone, tall windows. When I was little, it looked like a castle. Today it looked like a courthouse.
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. My hair was smooth, pulled back into a low bun. My navy blazer sat neatly on my shoulders.
I’d chosen everything carefully—white blouse, simple slacks, low heels. Nothing flashy. Nothing that could be interpreted as “trying to impress.”
Just competent.
Professional. The way I wanted to be seen. In the passenger seat, my black portfolio rested against the door.
Inside: my latest pay stubs, my employee ID, a printed copy of the glowing performance review my manager had given me last quarter, and the recommendation form she’d encouraged me to have my father fill out. “One good letter from someone with board connections can make all the difference,” she’d said. “You’ve earned this, Kelsey.”
My father used to have those connections.
When I asked if he’d sign, he’d said yes quickly. Too quickly. “I’ll bring it to the meeting,” he’d told me.
“We’ll make it a family moment.”
The words had sounded wrong even then. But I’d wanted to believe him. I’d spent thirty-one years wanting to believe him.
I grabbed the portfolio and stepped out of the car. The front door was already open. Voices drifted from inside—low, blunted by walls.
I crossed the threshold into the foyer. The air inside smelled like lemon polish and old paper. Family photos lined the wall: my grandfather shaking hands with people in suits, my father in his twenties, my brother Logan with a plastic trophy.
There was one of me in a graduation cap, wedged into a lower corner of a collage frame. If you didn’t look closely, you’d miss it. The voices came from the back of the house.
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