Chapter 7 - Mia Stops Being the FavoriteBy spring, my relationship with Mia existed in a strange middle ground.
We weren’t close.
Not yet.
But we were no longer enemies.
She sent me occasional texts.
Pictures of terrible apartment furniture.
Questions about health insurance.
Once, a photograph of three different blenders with the message:
HOW DO ADULTS KNOW WHICH ONE TO BUY?
I replied:
We don’t. We read reviews and pretend.
It was the first time we had laughed together in years.
Mia found a small apartment twenty minutes from my house and took a marketing job at a nonprofit.
Mom hated both decisions.
I knew because Mia told me.
“She called my apartment depressing.”
“It is kind of depressing.”
“Chloe.”
“It has character.”
“It has a radiator that sounds like someone is murdering a goose.”
“Historic character.”
She laughed.
Then her face became serious.
“Mom keeps coming over.”
“Do you let her in?”
“I used to.”
“And now?”
“I changed the lock.”
I nearly dropped my coffee.
“Who are you?”
“Therapy Mia.”
“I like Therapy Mia.”
“She’s expensive.”
“Still cheaper than Bali.”
Mia stared at me for two seconds, then laughed so hard she almost spit out her drink.
Those moments gave me hope.
Not because they erased the past.
They didn’t.
But because we were finally meeting each other as adults rather than as roles assigned by our mother.
The favorite.
The difficult one.
The fragile daughter.
The jealous daughter.
Without Mom narrating our relationship, we discovered we actually liked each other.
Sometimes.
Then, one Thursday afternoon, Mia called me crying.
Old instincts immediately activated.
“What happened?”
“Jason emailed me.”
Her former boyfriend.
The one whose breakup had supposedly justified rearranging my wedding.
“What did he say?”
“He’s engaged.”
My heart sank.
“Oh, Mia.”
“I know I don’t get to be upset.”
“Of course you do.”
“But I ruined that relationship.”
“You made mistakes.”
“I let Mom destroy it.”
“That too.”
She laughed weakly.
“Thanks.”
“You want me to lie?”
“No.”
She took a breath.
“I’m not crying because I think he should come back.”
“Okay.”
“I’m crying because I finally understand what he was trying to tell me.”
That was growth.
Painful growth.
But growth.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
A week later, Mia made a decision.
She booked a flight.
To Bali.
Alone.
When she told me, I burst out laughing.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“June.”
“Does Mom know?”
“No.”
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He gave me sunscreen.”
“That sounds like Dad.”
Mia smiled.
“I want to finish the trip for myself.”
“You mean start it.”
She tilted her head.
“Exactly.”
She posted a picture from the airport the morning she left.
Nothing dramatic.
Just her passport, coffee, and boarding pass.
Caption:
Learning how to go somewhere without asking permission.
Mom saw it.
Within twenty minutes, she called Dad.
Within thirty, she called me.
I did not answer.
Then she sent eleven messages.
Did you know about this?
Why is she traveling alone?
This is dangerous.
She isn’t emotionally stable enough.
You encouraged this.
I replied once.
Mia is an adult. Talk to her.
Mom answered:
She blocked me.
I stared at the screen.
Then typed:
Then respect that.
Apparently, that was unbearable.
Because two days later, Mom showed up at Dad’s apartment.
He later told me what happened.
She demanded that he give her Mia’s hotel information.
He refused.
She accused him of helping me turn Mia against her.
He refused to argue.
Then she said something strange.
“If Mia tells Chloe about the account, don’t blame me.”
Dad asked what account.
Mom left.
He called me immediately.
I had no idea.
We waited until Mia returned.
She came back different.
Not transformed.
Not magically healed.
But calmer.
Tanner.
More certain.
We met for dinner two nights later.
Dad joined us.
Halfway through the meal, he asked.
“What account was your mother talking about?”
Mia stopped chewing.
Her face changed.
“What?”
Dad repeated Mom’s statement.
Mia put down her fork.
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Mia?”
She stared at the table.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you.”
“What?”
She looked at me.
“Remember Grandma Evelyn?”
Our mother’s mother.
She had died six years earlier.
“Of course.”
“She left money.”
“I know. Mom inherited the house.”
“Not that.”
Mia swallowed.
“She left money for us.”
I frowned.
“For who?”
“You and me.”
Dad went completely still.
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand each.”
I stared at her.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Mom told me.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
My skin prickled.
“Why would she tell you and not me?”
Mia looked sick.
“Because she gave me mine.”
The restaurant seemed to grow quieter around me.
“What?”
“She said Grandma created two education-and-home funds.”
“I never received anything.”
“I know.”
Dad leaned forward.
“What happened to Chloe’s?”
Mia whispered, “Mom used it.”
I felt cold.
“For what?”
“She said you didn’t need it.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Mia’s eyes filled.
“She used part of it to pay off my student loans.”
I couldn’t speak.
“And the rest?”
“I don’t know.”
Dad looked horrified.
“You knew?”
Mia shook her head frantically.
“Not all of it. Mom told me the money was hers to distribute. I believed her.”
“When did you learn otherwise?”
“Last month.”
“How?”
“I found Grandma’s attorney.”
I stared at her.
“You contacted him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He still has the trust documents.”
She reached into her purse.
My heart began pounding.
Mia placed a folder on the table.
“Grandma didn’t leave the money to Mom.”
She looked directly at me.
“She left it to us.”
Dad whispered, “Oh my God.”
Mia continued.
“And Chloe…”
She pushed the folder toward me.
“The amount wasn’t fifty thousand.”
I opened it.
My eyes found the number.
Then I stopped breathing.
My grandmother had left each of us one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.
My inheritance had been sitting under my mother’s control.
Or rather, it should have been.
But according to the accounting statement attached to the trust file, almost all of it was gone.
And beside several withdrawals was the same signature.
May you like
Brenda Bennett.
My mother.
Related Stories
