She still saw me as the twenty-two-year-old daughter who handed over paychecks whenever she cried about bills. She assumed exhaustion had made me soft.
What she didn’t know was that six months earlier, after she secretly opened a credit card using my old address and “accidentally” listed me as a guarantor, I stopped treating her like family and started treating her as a legal risk.
I had cameras, an attorney, and every text saved.
And the house she kept calling “our family home” belonged to a trust she couldn’t touch.
Mom snapped her fingers at Dale. “Start with the upstairs rooms.”
He reached for the first box.
I pulled out my phone.
Mom smirked. “Who are you calling? Your doctor?”
“No,” I said.
I glanced at the moving truck, then the camera above my garage.
