Chapter 6 - The Panic Sets In
By 10:15 p.m., the single text had multiplied into a barrage of digital panic.
My phone vibrated across the granite countertop, buzzing incessantly.
Trisha: "Andrea, pick up the phone!" Trisha: "Are you seeing this? The London account is empty! Did the bank glitch?" Trisha: "Mom is calling me crying because I told her I can't pay my housing deposit tonight. What did you do?!"
Neil poured two cups of coffee, sliding one across the island toward me. He looked at my screen, where the notification log was rapidly filling up with missed calls and frantic text messages. "She's escalating," he observed mildly. "That didn't take long."
"She’s realizing that reality has finally caught up with her," I said, taking a sip of the hot coffee.
Before I could reply, my own mother’s name flashed across the caller ID.
Mom Calling.
I let it ring out. The phone played its monotonous tune for thirty seconds before cutting off to voicemail. Within ten seconds, it started vibrating again.
"Are you going to answer them?" Neil asked.
"Not yet," I said, sliding the phone face down so the flashing light was muffled against the wood. "If I answer now, they’ll scream, yell, and try to gaslight me into fixing it. I want them to panic a little more. I want them to understand that my charity wasn't an infinite resource."
As if summoned by our conversation, my phone buzzed again with a text—this time from my father.
Dad: "Andrea, what the hell is going on with your sister? She’s hysterical in the living room, and your mother is threatening to drive over there. Pick up your phone right now and tell us what kind of sick joke you're playing."
Sick joke.
The irony of those words nearly made me laugh out loud. Walking into a seven-year-old child's room, intimidating her, and stealing her hard-earned savings jar—that was a sick joke. Protecting my own family and reclaiming what was mine was just basic math.
I looked at the clock on the microwave. 10:30 p.m.
"Alright," I said, standing up from the kitchen island. "Let's rip the bandage off. But we do this on our terms."
I picked up the phone, flipped it over, and dialed Trisha’s number directly. I didn't wait for her to call back; I took the initiative.
She answered on the very first ring, her voice pitched high, ragged, and trembling with a mixture of fury and absolute terror.
"Andrea! What is wrong with you?! The registrar’s office just sent me an automated email saying my tuition installment failed and my enrollment is being placed on hold! The housing office is demanding the wire transfer by midnight or I lose my flat in London! What did you do to the account?!"
I kept my voice ice-cold, calm, and completely devoid of emotion.
"I transferred the money, Trisha," I said evenly.
A stunned silence fell over the line. For a second, I could only hear her ragged breathing on the other end.
"Transferred... transferred it where?" she stammered, her voice dropping an octave as confusion began to wrestle with her panic. "What do you mean you transferred it? That money is for my program! It's earmarked for London! You can't just move it!"
"It was in my account," I replied, emphasizing every single word. "In my name, funded by my labor, backed by my signature. And as of tonight, it has been reallocated to a far more deserving cause."
"A more deserving cause?!" Trisha shrieked, the thin veneer of her composure completely shattering. "I am moving to London in three weeks! My entire life is riding on this! Are you out of your mind?! Mom! Mom, get on the other line, Andrea has lost her mind!"
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In the background, I could hear my mother’s frantic voice shouting in the distance, asking what was happening, followed by the sound of footsteps and a muffled scuffle as the phone was apparently snatched away.
"Andrea Marie!" my mother’s voice boomed through the speaker, trembling with absolute outrage. "What kind of cruel, hateful thing are you doing to your sister? Put the money back right now! Do you have any idea what this is doing to her?!"
