“Athena,” she called, voice carrying across the shop. “We need to talk about family.”
Helen, standing near the pastry case, moved closer to me. Robert set down his champagne flute. Marcus appeared at my elbow.
“This isn’t really the time, Mom,” I said evenly.
“When is the time?” she snapped. “You won’t answer calls. You won’t reply to messages.” She gestured around the bakery. “But you have time for all of this.”
Every eye in the room turned toward us.
I took a breath.
“Okay, Mom,” I said. “Let’s talk about family.”
My mother had never learned the art of reading a room.
“You abandoned us,” she declared, sharp enough to cut glass. “Your own parents. Your own family. You cut us off without warning, without any consideration for what we’ve done for you.”
I felt Marcus’s hand on my back—steady, grounding.
Behind Mom, I saw Mrs. Patterson, a regular, set down her coffee cup with a concerned frown.
“Mom, this really isn’t—”
“Do you have any idea what we’re going through?” she barreled on. “Your father hasn’t slept in weeks. We might lose our home. And you’re here throwing parties and acting like we don’t exist.”
Clarissa stepped forward, playing her supporting role.
“She’s right, Athena. You have this successful business and you can’t even help your own mother. What kind of daughter does that?”
I noticed the Portland Monthly reporter had taken out her phone. Recording, or note-taking—I couldn’t tell.
“What kind of daughter?” I repeated quietly.
“That’s a good question, Clarissa.”
Dad finally spoke, voice soft and pleading. “Athena, sweetheart… let’s not make a scene. Just come home. Talk to us privately. We can work this out like a family.”
A family.
Something in me snapped—not violently, but cleanly, like a knot finally pulling free.
“Is that what we are?” I asked.
I reached below the counter, where I’d stored the folder that morning. Part of me had known. Part of me had been waiting.
“You came here to ask for money,” I said, setting the folder on the counter. “You came in front of all these people hoping to shame me into writing a check.”
My voice didn’t shake.
“So let’s do this properly,” I continued. “Let’s talk about what this family has really looked like for the past eight years.”
I opened the folder and spread the pages across the counter.
“These are my transfer records,” I said. “Eight years of money moving from my account to yours.”
I looked at my mother’s face and watched the color drain.
“Would you like to know the total, Mom?”
I didn’t wait.
“$247,500.”
The number hung in the air like smoke.
Clarissa’s mouth fell open. My father stared at the pages like they might burst into flames.
“Every month,” I said, keeping my voice level, “I sent you $2,500—sometimes more when there was an ‘emergency.’ Clarissa’s wedding: $10,000 from my savings. Dad’s surgery: $8,000—which I later learned wasn’t even for surgery.”
