“You meant it every time you signed my name,” I said. “Every time you smiled for the camera, knowing it was built on my identity.”
She sobbed harder. “I didn’t think it would get this bad.”
“That’s the problem,” I replied. “You never do.”
Then I said the truest thing I’d said in years.
“I don’t need you to go to jail. I just need you to finally live without me.”
I rolled the window up and drove off.
For the first time in a long time, my hands didn’t shake on the steering wheel.
My chest didn’t ache.
My voice was mine again.
Part 5
By Monday, the calls started—not from Cass, but from everyone else.
Aunt Marie, who once told me at Thanksgiving that I was “too serious” and should “lighten up” like Cass.
Uncle Dennis, who had borrowed money from my parents twice and never paid it back.
Even Grandma Evelyn, who had called me “the quiet failure” when I chose accounting over “something glamorous.”
They all said some version of the same thing.
She’s your sister.
Blood is thicker.
She learned her lesson.
Do you really want her to go to jail?
Not a single one asked what she’d done.