Chapter 2

The next evening, my father called a family meeting. That' s what he called it, but it was really just a summons. The setting was the same dingy living room, the air just as heavy. Dr. Evans, our family physician for over twenty years, was there too. His presence felt strange and official.

Mr. Miller sat in his worn armchair like a king on a throne, a stack of papers on the end table beside him. My mother stood near his shoulder, a loyal guard. Mike was back on the couch, looking smug. I was instructed to sit on a stiff wooden chair, separate from them.

"We' ve made a decision," my father announced, his voice booming in the small room. He picked up the papers. "I' ve had my will updated."

He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes sweeping over me before landing on Mike.

"The family business, Miller & Son Hardware, and this house, will go entirely to Mike. He is my only son, my heir. It is his responsibility to carry on the family legacy."

The words hung in the air, cold and sharp. I had expected it, I had known it was coming, but the finality of the declaration still hit me hard. Decades of my financial support, of my sacrifices, erased in a single sentence. The business wasn't "Miller & Son." It was "Miller & Daughter's Paycheck." I had personally funded the inventory orders more times than I could count.

"What about me?" I asked, my voice quiet but steady.

My father looked at me as if I' d asked a stupid question.

"What about you? You' re a successful woman. You have your own career. You don' t need anything from us."

"That' s not the point," I said, my hands clenching in my lap. "For years, I' ve put my own savings into that business. When the roof at the store was leaking, who paid for the repairs? When Mike crashed the delivery truck, who paid for the replacement? It wasn't him."

I glanced at my brother, who was now examining his fingernails, feigning boredom.

"That was your duty as a daughter," my father said, his tone dismissive. "It was an investment in your family' s future. In Mike' s future."

"So my money is good enough to build his future, but I get no part of it?" The question was raw.

"Exactly," my father said, without a hint of shame. "You understand perfectly."

The coldness in his voice was absolute. It was the sound of a door slamming shut, locking me out forever. Dr. Evans shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes full of a pity I didn't want.

Mike, hearing the final confirmation of his inheritance, suddenly sat up straight. The bored look was gone, replaced by a wide, triumphant grin.

"Thanks, Dad," he said, his voice dripping with false sincerity. "I won' t let you down. I' ll take great care of the business."

He shot me a look, a malicious, gloating look that said, "I won. You lost."

That was the moment something inside me finally broke. It wasn't a loud shatter, but a quiet, clean snap. The last thread of hope, of obligation, of a daughter' s love, severed completely.

I looked at my father' s cold face, my mother' s supportive nod, my brother' s greedy smile. I saw them for what they were: a pack of leeches who had been draining me my entire life.

I stood up.

"Fine," I said.

The word was so calm, so devoid of the emotion they expected, that it startled them. All three of them looked at me, their expressions shifting to confusion.

"You' re right," I continued, my voice gaining strength. "I don' t need anything from you. And from this day forward, you won' t get anything from me."

My mother gasped. "Sarah, what are you saying?"

"I' m saying I' m done," I said, looking each of them in the eye. "No more money. No more bailing Mike out. No more paying for your mistakes. You wanted him to be the heir? He' s all yours. The business, the house, and all the bills that come with them. They' re his responsibility now."

Mike' s grin vanished. "You can' t do that!"

"Watch me," I said.

My father' s face turned red with rage. "You ungrateful child! We are your parents! You have a moral obligation!"

"You talk about morality?" I laughed, a bitter, humorless sound. "You, who have used me as a walking ATM since I got my first job? You, who value your son' s gender over your daughter' s loyalty? Your idea of morality is a one-way street, and I' m getting off."

I turned to leave.

"You walk out that door, and you are no longer our daughter!" my mother shrieked, her voice cracking with fury, not sadness.

It was the threat they had always used, the one they thought would keep me in line forever.

I paused at the door and looked back at them, at their twisted, angry faces.

"You think that' s a threat?" I said. "To me, it sounds like a promise."

Then I walked out and closed the door on my old life.