My mother held the sealed page between two fingers as though it might burn her.
The attorney’s voice came through my phone again.
“Open it, Amelia.”
My mother looked at me instead.
“This is absurd,” she said.
“You invited a stranger into a private family disagreement.”
“She is not a stranger,” I replied.
“She is my attorney.”
My father gave a dismissive laugh, but it arrived half a second too late.
Abigail remained seated at the table.
Her eyes moved between my hospital discharge summary, the bank records, and the page showing the total amount I had transferred to our family over the previous seven years.
The total was $93,870.
Not all of it had been a loan.
I knew that.
My attorney knew it too.
Some payments had been gifts I had offered willingly before I understood that generosity had become the price of being tolerated.
But $46,200 of the transfers were attached to messages in which my parents or Abigail had specifically promised repayment.
Those were the payments listed on page seven.
My mother finally tore open the small envelope attached to it.
Inside was a printed statement from Sebastian.
He had written down exactly what happened the day I collapsed at work.
He described finding me on the floor near the copy machine, calling an ambulance, riding behind me to Pine Valley Medical Center, and using my emergency-contact information to reach my mother.
He included the time of the call.
He included its duration.
He included her response.
“We’re busy with something right now.
Just keep us posted.”
At the bottom, Sebastian had signed his name beneath a sentence confirming that the hospital staff told him my condition was critical before he called her.
Abigail looked up slowly.
“You knew she could die?”
My mother placed the statement on the table.
“That man misunderstood me.”
“He quoted you exactly,” I said.
“I was under enormous pressure.
Your sister’s wedding venue was threatening to cancel our tasting appointment.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
A wedding tasting.
That was the emergency that had kept my mother from visiting her daughter in intensive care.
My father stepped in before Abigail could respond.
“Enough,” he said.
“We are not going to be interrogated in your apartment.
Transfer the twelve thousand, and we will discuss the rest later.”
My attorney spoke before I could.
“No money will be transferred.
I sent you and Amelia a formal demand letter this morning regarding the documented loans.
You should receive it today.”
My father’s face tightened.
“What loans?”
“The ones you acknowledged in writing.”
“They were gifts.”
“Then your repeated promises to repay them will require an explanation.”
My mother leaned toward the phone.
“You cannot threaten us because our daughter is confused.”
“I am not threatening you,” the attorney said.
“I am explaining the next step.”
