Chapter 2

I stared at the video again, then swiped to the comments section below it on the neighborhood app. My blood ran cold.

"That's the lady from the big house on the corner. Such a shame."

"Her daughter is some big-shot tech CEO, isn't she? You'd think she could afford to take care of her own mother."

"All that money and they just let her wander around like that. Disgusting."

The words felt like physical blows. They didn't know me. They didn't know I had set my mother up to live like a queen. The injustice was suffocating. I was paying for a life of luxury for her, while the world saw me as a neglectful daughter.

I immediately tried calling my mother's cell. It went straight to voicemail, the mailbox full. The automated message felt like a wall between us. Panic began to bubble in my chest.

Next, I dialed my stepfather, Mark. He picked up on the fourth ring, his voice overly cheerful.

"Chloe! What a surprise! How's Singapore?"

"Mark, where is Mom?" I cut straight to the point.

"She's right here, puttering around the garden. You know her, always got to be doing something with her hands." He chuckled, a sound that suddenly seemed slimy and false.

"A neighbor sent me a video, Mark. Of Mom. Going through garbage cans on the street."

There was a brief pause. "Oh, that!" he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "That's just her new hobby, Chloe. Getting back to nature, she calls it. A bit eccentric, I know, but she's enjoying herself. You know how artists are."

Rage, pure and hot, flooded me. "A hobby? Mark, are you serious? My mother has severe arthritis in her hands. She can barely hold a paintbrush some days, let alone spend hours digging through trash bins. What is going on?"

I remembered last Christmas, watching her struggle to even open a jar of olives, her knuckles swollen and painful. The idea of her "enjoying" scavenging was not just a lie; it was a cruel, absurd fiction. It was a complete dismissal of her physical reality.

"You're overreacting, Chloe. She's fine. A little confused sometimes, but the doctor says that's normal for her age."

My mind flashed to the picture of Brenda. The anger inside me solidified into a sharp, pointed weapon.

"Then explain this to me, Mark. Why is Brenda, the housekeeper, wearing my mother's custom-made emerald gown and my grandmother's sapphire necklace to a party?"

The silence on the other end of the line was longer this time. It was heavy with guilt.

"Oh, that," he finally stammered, his cheerful facade cracking. "Eleanor said Brenda could borrow them. You know your mother, always so generous. Brenda had a little event to go to and nothing to wear. Eleanor insisted."

He was a terrible liar. My mother would never, not in a million years, lend those specific items to anyone, let alone her housekeeper. The dress was her treasure. The necklace was a piece of our family history.

"Put Mom on the phone," I demanded, my voice low and dangerous.

"She's... in the middle of something. I'll have her call you back, sweetheart."

"Put her on the phone now, Mark."

"She can't," he said, his voice turning firm, trying to reassert control. "She' s resting. I won't have you upsetting her. I'll talk to you later, Chloe."

He hung up.

I stared at my phone, the disconnected call echoing the complete and total disconnect from my family's reality. He didn't even try to make his lies believable. He didn't care. He thought I was 10,000 miles away and powerless. He thought I was stupid.

He was wrong.