No forced cheer.
Just that.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.
No hello from her either.
“I just got off the phone with your aunt. She says you told her I canceled Christmas.”
“I told her you didn’t want a big crowd,” I corrected. “Which is what you told me when you said no one needs me to come.”
“Don’t twist my words,” she snapped. “You know I was talking about your attitude, not your presence.”
I actually laughed.
“So my attitude isn’t needed, but my labor is.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Olivia,” she said, voice sharpening. “This martyr thing is getting old. You’ve always been so sensitive. You act like a servant when all you do is send a few messages and bake some cookies.”
Heat flooded my chest.
“A few messages,” I repeated. “You signed me up for years of unpaid work and called it tradition. I handle everything, Mom, and you know it.”
There was a shaky breath on the other end.
Then she aimed for the most painful place.
“You want to talk about work? I worked my fingers to the bone for you. I used my savings so you could have a future. I sacrificed everything. And this is how you repay me? By turning the family against me.”
For a second, I almost let her keep that narrative.
Then I remembered the bank statement.
The drained account.
My questionable signature.
“Your savings?” I asked quietly. “Or mine?”
Silence.
Real silence.
Not calculated.
