Chapter 4 - The Golden Child’s Confession
"...that I was the one who was going to put our family on the map," Briana finished, her voice breaking into a ragged whisper.
The greasy aroma of bacon and diner coffee hung heavy between us. Briana pulled another paper napkin from the chrome dispenser, shredding the corners with trembling, manicured fingers that looked ridiculous against the peeling vinyl booth.
"Mom convinced me that your life was a cautionary tale," Briana admitted, unable to look me in the eye. "She told me you were content being an assistant manager at a discount department store because you had no drive, no vision. She said the world belongs to people who curate an image. When I got that entry-level marketing position in the city, Mom practically threw a parade. She insisted I couldn't commute from our small town. She said, 'How will executives take you seriously if you live like a provincial clerk?'"
"So she told you to rent a loft you couldn't afford?" I asked, keeping my voice deliberate and steady.
"She picked the building," Briana cried softly. "She said if I signed the lease, she’d help with the deposit. But on moving day, her card was declined. She told me to put it on my emergency card. Then she told me the empty rooms looked like poverty. She logged into your Amazon account on her tablet because you had saved your prime login on her iPad two Christmases ago. Mom told me, 'Sylvia has savings. She doesn't spend money on anything nice anyway. We’ll just tell her after the housewarming, and she can write it off as a family investment.'"
A cold chill settled in my chest. It wasn't just Briana's vanity at play. It was our mother's relentless, parasitic ambition. Mom had spent twenty-five years treating Briana like a prized thoroughbred and me like a workhorse. But what horrified me most was what Briana said next.
"Sylvia... that fourteen grand on your Amazon account isn't even the worst part," Briana said, squeezing her eyes shut. "Mom opened three retail store cards under my social security number last month. She maxed them out buying designer clothes for herself to wear to my housewarming party. I got a notice yesterday. My credit score dropped two hundred points. The loft landlord called this morning. The first month's rent check bounced."
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I stared at my sister. The golden child hadn't been crowned; she had been led to the financial slaughterhouse by the woman who raised us.
"We’re going to your loft," I said, sliding out of the booth. "Pack a suitcase. You're leaving that glass cage tonight."