Chapter 6 - The Sister's Gambit
Two days later, on a bitter Thursday afternoon, my sister Jenna showed up at my office.
I was sitting in my glass-walled cubicle at the logistics firm, reviewing shipping schedules, when I looked up and saw her standing in the lobby. She was wearing a sheepskin coat I recognized as having belonged to our mother, carrying an expensive leather handbag, and tapping her manicured nails impatiently against the reception desk.
I stepped out to meet her in the hallway.
"Claire," Jenna said, bypassing any greeting and stepping right into my personal space. "We need to talk. Right now."
"We can talk in the breakroom," I said calmly, gesturing down the corridor.
Once inside the empty breakroom, Jenna turned on me, her eyes flashing with indignant anger. "You are completely out of your mind! Do you know what you’re doing to Mom?! She hasn't slept in three days! She’s sick!"
"Mom isn't sick, Jenna," I replied, leaning against the counter and pouring myself a cup of water. "Mom is realizing that her actions have consequences."
"She’s an old woman!" Jenna shouted, slamming her leather bag onto the table. "You left her stranded with a five-thousand-dollar tax bill! And now Marcus Vance says you put some kind of illegal freeze on her bank loans?! Who do you think you are?!"
I looked at my younger sister—really looked at her.
Jenna was thirty-three years old, but in front of me stood a woman who had been perpetually frozen in teenage entitlement. She had spent her entire adult life relying on my mother’s favoritism and my financial labor to insulate her from reality. She didn't care about the truth; she cared that the bank account keeping her rent-free lifestyle afloat was running dry.
"Jenna," I said softly. "Where were you on Christmas Day?"
Jenna blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in topic. "What? I was at the farm!"
"At what time?"
"We ate at noon!" she snapped defensive, crossing her arms. "Mom decided at eleven that everyone was hungry. It wasn't a big deal!"
"You knew Noah and Sophie were coming at two," I said, my voice dropping into a razor-thin edge. "You knew I had been cooking since six in the morning. You knew my kids were wearing their Christmas sweaters, sitting by the door, waiting for a text message that never came. And when I called Mom, you sat in the background and laughed."
Jenna’s face flushed a deep, blotchy red. She shifted her eyes away from mine for a brief second. "It was just a laugh, Claire! Don't be so sensitive! We were having a good time!"
"You think my children's humiliation is funny," I said, stepping closer to her until she was forced to lean back against the table. "You think my time, my money, and my labor are things you get to consume while stepping on my head. But let me make something crystal clear to you, Jenna: the gravy train has officially derailed."
"You selfish, vindictive bitch," Jenna spat, her voice venomous. "You’re doing this because you’re jealous! You’ve always been jealous that Mom loved me more!"
I stared at her, expecting to feel a sharp sting of pain in my chest. But there was nothing. No hurt, no anger, no longing for a mother's preference that had never existed.
Just pity.
"She didn't love you more, Jenna," I said gently, looking her dead in the eye. "She just found you easier to control because you were willing to stay small. I was useful to her when I paid her bills, but the second I set a boundary, she sent two men to break down my front door at six in the morning."
Jenna swallowed hard, her confidence wavering. "She... she was desperate."
"And now she has to sell the farm," I stated plainly.
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"She can't sell it!" Jenna practically shrieked. "Where am I supposed to live?!"
"You're thirty-three years old, Jenna," I said, turning back toward the breakroom door. "I suggest you go find an apartment and get a job. Because I am enforcing my lien, and the farm goes up for sale next week."
