Mark sighed, a long, exaggerated sound—the sound of a man burdened by a difficult, irrational child. “God, Sarah, do you have to be so transactional? This is exactly what Mom is talking about. You think money gives you the right to control the soul of this family. It makes my mother happy to know I’m the provider, that I’ve finally ‘made it.’ Why do you have to ruin her joy with your ‘math’ and your ego?”
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. He actually believes the lie, I realized with a jolt of horror. He’s lived the fantasy so long he’s forgotten who signed the checks.
“I’m not asking you again,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “Pack a bag. Get out. We need some space to breathe without your spreadsheets suffocating us.”
I felt a coldness settle over my skin, a numbness that started at my fingertips and moved toward my heart. I looked at the door, then back at the man I thought I knew.
I walked toward the stairs, but as I reached the first step, I turned back and saw Martha already reaching for my favorite crystal vase, intending to move it. I knew then that this wasn’t just a fight. It was a war.