She flipped through two yellowed pages and laughed through her nose.
« Oh, please, Dad. Her little book shop barely covered its own rent. You paid for everything in her life. »
She tossed the ledger into the wastebasket beside the desk.
« Throw it away, Dad. Mom never really had any money. »
Then she checked her reflection, adjusted the Cartier bracelet on her wrist, and told me to come downstairs.
I didn’t argue.
I just watched her leave in a three-thousand-dollar dress she had bought on my credit card two days earlier.
Something hurt in my chest that had nothing to do with the funeral.
My daughter didn’t respect her mother.
She respected money.
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