Chapter 6 - The Dinner Table Ambush
By Wednesday evening, news of the housewarming disaster had spread through our extended family like wildfire. Mom had gone into full damage-control mode, spinning a narrative where I was an ungrateful, vindictive sister who had publicly humiliated Briana and left her homeless out of pure jealousy.
She called a mandatory "family council" at her home, summoning our maternal aunt Clara and uncle Dave—the self-appointed moral arbiters of the family.
I agreed to attend under one condition: Briana had to stay in my car until I gave the signal.
When I walked through Mom’s front door, the scent of pot roast hung in the air, masking the suffocating tension. Aunt Clara sat on the floral sofa, arms crossed over her chest, while Uncle Dave stood by the fireplace looking like a stern country judge. Mom sat at the dining table, a damp tissue clutched in one manicured hand, looking like a tragic Victorian widow.
"Look who finally decided to show her face," Aunt Clara spat, shaking her head. "Sylvia, I never thought you could be so cruel to your own flesh and blood. To call the police on your little sister over a few pieces of furniture? To have her humiliated on the internet?"
"It wasn't a few pieces of furniture, Aunt Clara," I said evenly, closing the door behind me. "It was fourteen thousand, six hundred and eighty dollars of unauthorized charges."
May you like
"You could have handled it privately!" Mom sobbed loudly into her handkerchief. "I told you we would pay you back monthly! But you had to make a scene! You had to ruin Briana's reputation just when her career was taking off! Do you have any idea how fragile she is? Now she's missing, her phone is off, and it's your fault!"
"She's not missing, Mom," I said, walking to the table and setting down a heavy leather binder. "She's sitting in my car outside. And unlike you, she finally knows the truth."