“A mistake is forgetting to call,” I said. “A mistake is buying the wrong size dress. A mistake is not forging your sister’s identity for a half-million-dollar mortgage.”
Cass’s voice cracked, and for a second she sounded younger. “I needed it.”
I stared at her. “You wanted it,” I said. “And you thought you could take it.”
My father pushed his plate away like he’d lost his appetite for reality. “We’re family,” he muttered.
I gathered the papers neatly back into my folder, hands precise.
“I wanted to believe,” I said quietly, “that this family would protect me. Turns out I was just the signature you needed when no one else trusted you.”
Cass started crying then, the big dramatic kind she’d always used when she wanted someone to rescue her.
My mother stood, reaching for me. “Elena, don’t go.”
But I was already standing, my chair sliding back.
I didn’t stop. I didn’t turn. I didn’t look back.
As I walked out, I heard Cass sob, “You’re so jealous,” like jealousy was the only explanation for accountability.
I stepped into the sunlight, and my lungs filled with air that felt cleaner than the air inside that house.
That night, the detective called.