Chapter 4 - Auditing the Past
The drive to Aunt Helen’s house in the suburbs was conducted in a heavy, contemplative silence. The heater in Helen’s sedan hummed softly, blowing warm air against my frozen toes. In the back seat, resting safely inside its damaged cardboard box, was the two-tier cake. We hadn't left it behind; Helen had insisted we take it, remarking with a grim smile that even a smashed fondant rose tasted better when it wasn't eaten under false pretenses.
When we walked into Helen’s cozy, cluttered kitchen—smelling of cinnamon tea, old paper, and lemon polish—the immediate physical tension in my shoulders began to uncoil, drop by agonizing drop.
Helen didn't ask me questions right away. She didn't offer empty platitudes like everything happens for a reason or blood is thicker than water. Instead, she silently filled an electric kettle, set out two mugs, and placed a plate of homemade shortbread cookies on the wooden table.
“Drink this,” Helen said softly, sliding a steaming mug of chamomile tea across to me before sitting down in the wooden Windsor chair opposite mine.
I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic mug, letting the heat seep into my chilled skin.
“How long did you know?” I asked quietly, staring down at the amber surface of the tea.
Helen sighed, leaning back and resting her hands in her lap. “About the rent? Since Mr. Henderson called me. About the rest of it? Maya, honey, I’ve known for years.”
I looked up, my eyes stinging. “Why didn't you say anything? Why let me keep breaking my back for her?”
Helen gave a sad, knowing smile. “Because you wouldn't have listened, sweet girl. When you lost your parents, you strapped yourself to the mast of a sinking ship. You thought that if you just bailed fast enough, and worked hard enough, you could save your little sister from drowning in the same grief that terrified you. If I had told you Victoria was selfish, you would have defended her. You had to touch the stove yourself to learn it was hot.”
She reached across the table and patted my hand.
“Tell me something, Maya. When was the last time Victoria asked you how you were doing? Not about your job, not about your car, not about some favor she needed—just... how your heart was holding up?”
I sat there in the quiet kitchen, running through six years of memories like frames of a fast-forwarded film.
There were late-night phone calls where I listened to her vent for two hours about a guy she met at a bar, and when she finally took a breath and asked, “What about you, Maya? How’s your week?”, I started to answer—“Actually, I’ve been having these panic attacks—” only for her to interrupt with, “Oh, wait, hold on, my other line is beeping, I'll call you back,” and never did.
There were holidays where I spent three days cooking a full Thanksgiving meal in my tiny kitchen, brought it over to her apartment because she didn't feel like traveling, and watched her and her friends eat everything while complaining that the turkey was a little dry.
There were birthdays, Christmases, emergencies, and quiet Tuesdays where I was the reliable, invisible scaffolding holding up her entire social architecture.
And in return? I got the label convenient. I got the punchline about the Tiffany necklace. I got my handmade scrapbook mocked under a coffee table.
“Never,” I whispered, the word tasting like lead. “Not once.”
“Well,” Helen said briskly, standing up and pouring herself a refill of tea. “Consider that the cheapest tuition fee you’ll ever pay for a life lesson. The girl is twenty-six years old, Maya. She’s got a college degree, she’s got a high-paying marketing job, and she’s got a fiancé who’s apparently wealthy enough to buy her diamond rings. She is no longer your dependent.”
Helen turned around, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed.
“Which brings us to the next order of business.”
I looked up, confused. “What business?”
“Mr. Henderson called me back ten minutes before I walked into her apartment today,” Helen said, a slight, wicked glint appearing in her eyes. “Seems Victoria’s lease is up for renewal at the end of next month. The landlord was checking to see if the automatic split-payment arrangement was continuing for the new year.”
My breath caught. “Oh.”
“Oh, indeed,” Helen smiled. “I told him no. I told him Maya Vance’s financial association with unit 14B terminated as of today. Permanently.”
A cold shock ran through my veins, quickly followed by a strange, intoxicating rush of adrenaline.
“Helen... she’s going to flip out. That apartment costs three thousand eight hundred dollars a month. Her salary is good, but without my half—plus the fact that she spends her entire paycheck on designer clothes and weekend trips—she won't even make the credit requirement.”
May you like
“Then she can learn to budget like every other working adult in this city,” Helen said firmly, walking back over and sitting down. “Or she can ask Chloe to move in and pay the difference. Let’s see how long that friendship lasts when money is involved.”
For the first time in six years, a genuine, unburdened laugh escaped my lips. It felt rusty, unused, but wonderfully light.
