“Raymond, please!” she cried. “You can’t do this to your own sister! I’ll lose everything! Where am I supposed to go?”
I looked toward Elena. There was no cruelty in her eyes. Only sadness. She didn’t want revenge. She wanted safety.
Then I turned back toward my sister.
“You will move into the two-bedroom apartment the foundation owns in downtown Queens,” I said firmly, though my tone softened slightly. “And if you ever want your stipend restored, you will report every Monday morning to our inner-city youth shelter and serve meals to families who actually understand struggle. You’re going to learn what real community looks like, Beatrice. You’re going to learn that a person’s value is not measured by status, but by kindness.”
Beatrice stared down at the papers, then toward Elena, before collapsing into a chair. For the first time in her life, she cried not from anger, but from the painful realization of her own emptiness.
