She was seventeen.
I still had the paper.
Folded.
Worn.
Inside a drawer.
She unfolded it.
Read.
Then stared.
“Mom wrote this?”
“Yes.”
“That’s brutal.”
“Yes.”
“She made you clean all three floors?”
“Yes.”
“Before breakfast?”
“Yes.”
Emma laughed.
Then stopped.
“You actually did it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
That question mattered.
I thought.
Then answered.
“Because I wanted to see what would happen.”
“What happened?”
“I learned things.”
“About Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Me?”
I smiled.
“You and Noah were the best part.”
She looked at the paper again.
Then.
“Why didn’t you just tell them you were rich?”
I laughed.
“Because whether I had money should not have changed whether the rules were cruel.”
She nodded slowly.
“That makes sense.”
Then she asked.
“Were you trying to teach them a lesson?”
“No.”
“At least not at first.”
“What were you trying to do?”
“Retire.”
She laughed.
Fair.
That was the truth.
