Chapter 2

The next morning, the house was filled with a false sense of peace. The smell of coffee and toast drifted up the stairs. I could hear my parents talking in the kitchen, their voices low and normal. It made everything feel worse, like the chasm that had opened up inside me didn't exist to anyone else.

I stayed in my room until I couldn't avoid it any longer. I needed to get to my morning class. When I walked into the kitchen, my mother was at the counter, scrolling through her phone.

"Morning, Chloe," she said without looking up. "There' s toast."

"Thanks," I mumbled.

My father was reading the newspaper at the table. He grunted a hello. Lily was nowhere to be seen, probably still sleeping. She didn' t have class until noon.

I poured myself a glass of water, my hands shaking slightly. I needed to know for sure. I needed to see it.

The opportunity came unexpectedly.

"Chloe, honey, can you do me a favor?" my mother asked, finally putting her phone down. "My phone' s about to die. Can you look up the address for the new bakery on your phone? Lily' s been wanting to try their cronuts."

Of course it was for Lily.

"My phone is upstairs," I lied smoothly. "I can just use yours."

"Oh, okay. It' s right there. The passcode is Lily' s birthday."

Her carelessness was a punch to the gut. Lily' s birthday. Not mine. Not their anniversary. Lily' s.

I picked up her phone. My heart was hammering against my ribs. I typed in the four digits, and the screen unlocked. My fingers were clumsy as I opened her messaging app.

And there it was. Pinned to the top of her conversations.

A group chat named "Family Trio." The participants were "Mom," "Dad," and "Lily-bug."

I felt a wave of nausea. My breath caught in my throat. I tapped on it.

The screen filled with hundreds, maybe thousands, of messages. Photos of them out to dinner at a restaurant they told me they were too tired to go to. Jokes about my seriousness. Complaints about my work schedule.

I scrolled up, my eyes scanning the words that blurred through a haze of disbelief and pain.

Dad: Had to give Chloe another hundred bucks for her books. When does she start paying us back?

Mom: Be patient, dear. Her job at the library isn't exactly high-paying. At least it's stable.

Lily-bug: Ugh, she was trying to 'help' me with my homework last night. So boring. I thought my brain was going to melt.

Dad: [laughing emoji] She gets that from your side of the family, honey.

Mom: Don' t forget, Chloe, we need you to chip in for the property tax bill next month. It' s a big one.

That last message was from two days ago. It wasn't a message sent to me. It was a message about me, a reminder for them to ask me for money. They were coordinating their financial demands in secret.

I kept scrolling, a sick fascination taking hold. I saw them discussing a weekend trip they took to the coast, a trip I knew nothing about. They had told me they were spending the weekend at home, deep cleaning the garage. There were pictures of them on the beach, smiling, Lily holding up a seashell.

The betrayal was absolute. It wasn't just neglect; it was an active, sustained effort to create a life that I was not a part of. They weren't just forgetting me. They were erasing me.

I remembered every single time I had handed over a chunk of my paycheck. For the new water heater. For the car repairs. For Lily' s braces. For Lily' s field trip to Washington D.C. I had always thought I was helping my family, being a responsible daughter.

Now I saw it for what it was: exploitation. I was the family ATM, the reliable utility they could tap whenever they needed, and then put away in a dark closet when they were done.

My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the phone. I had to do something. I couldn' t just put the phone down and pretend I hadn' t seen it.

With a clarity that cut through the fog of pain, I started taking screenshots. I scrolled and screenshotted, over and over. Their jokes, their financial planning at my expense, their casual dismissal of me as a person. I captured dozens of images, a digital archive of their betrayal.

When I had enough, I sent the pictures to my own number and then, with meticulous care, I deleted every trace. I deleted the screenshots from her photo gallery, from the "recently deleted" folder. I deleted the text message that contained the images I had sent to myself.

Then I opened the internet browser and looked up the bakery, just as she had asked.

"It' s on Elm Street," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. I placed the phone back on the counter, face down.

"Thanks, sweetie," my mother said, picking it up without a second glance.

I walked out of the kitchen, went upstairs to my room, and grabbed my backpack. I didn't look at them as I left the house. The evidence was safe on my phone, a cold, hard confirmation of a truth I had always felt but never had the courage to face. They didn't love me. They used me. And now I had the proof. The knowledge didn't bring relief, only a deep, chilling certainty. The world I thought I knew was gone, and I had no idea what to do next.