Chapter 3
I couldn't sleep that night after Victoria's promise. Her words echoed in my mind—'Family takes care of family'—a phrase that had always preceded disappointment in my life. Still, a fragile hope bloomed in my chest. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe facing my mortality would finally make her see me as a sister worth saving.
Two days later, I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop open, a cup of tea growing cold beside me. The house was empty—Michael at work, the children at school, and for once, no sign of Victoria. The silence felt like a gift as I logged into our online banking account.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I entered the password. I'd been checking hourly since Victoria's promise, waiting for the transfer she'd guaranteed would come 'by the end of the week.' The page loaded, and I stared at the screen, blinking rapidly as if that might change what I was seeing.
Our savings account—the one that held what little remained of my personal funds—showed a balance of $12.47.
Yesterday, it had contained just over $32,000.
My hands began to shake as I clicked through the transaction history. There it was: a transfer of $32,000 to Victoria Hayes, authorized by Michael Hayes, timestamped 9:47 PM last night.
While I slept, they had taken everything.
The phone rang, startling me from my shocked stupor. Michael's name flashed on the screen. I answered without speaking.
"Catherine," his voice was cold, businesslike. "Victoria told me what you did."
"What I did?" My voice sounded far away, disconnected from my body.
"Trying to extort money from your own sister? Using some made-up illness as leverage?" His disgust was palpable. "I've transferred the money back to Victoria. She's not pressing charges, but only because you're family."
The room seemed to tilt around me. "Michael, I have cancer. Terminal cancer. I showed you the report—"
"Stop it," he cut me off. "Victoria explained everything. How you've always been jealous of her success, how you've been acting strange lately. I should have seen the signs."
"But the doctor—"
"I don't have time for this," he said, and I could hear Victoria's voice in the background, soft and concerned. "I have a meeting. We'll discuss your... behavior when I get home."
The line went dead. I sat motionless, the phone still pressed to my ear, listening to nothing.
Slowly, mechanically, I opened my email and found the message from Dr. Evans' office confirming my follow-up appointment for tomorrow. My finger hovered over the screen before I clicked 'Cancel appointment.' A pop-up asked if I wanted to reschedule. I closed the browser without responding.
What was the point? Without money for treatment, without a family who believed me, what difference did it make?
I spent the rest of the day in a fog, moving through the house like a ghost. I cleaned already spotless surfaces, rearranged books on shelves, folded and refolded laundry—the mindless tasks that had defined my existence for seventeen years.
Two mornings later, I woke to silence and the knowledge that it was my forty-fifth birthday. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if anyone would remember. Michael had left early for a breakfast meeting. The children were still asleep, their doors firmly closed against any intrusion from me.
I made my way downstairs, each step heavy with the weight of another year passed, another year unloved. In the kitchen, I pulled out a small yellow sticky note and wrote in careful letters: "Is anyone there?"
I placed it on the counter where they would all see it—a desperate, pathetic plea for acknowledgment on my birthday. Then I turned to the pantry and began pulling out ingredients: flour, sugar, cocoa powder, eggs.
A chocolate cake. My birthday cake. The one no one else would think to make.
As I measured and mixed, a strange calm settled over me. This would be my last birthday. Next year, I would be gone, and they would continue their lives, perhaps occasionally remembering the woman who had moved silently through their home, preparing meals, washing clothes, existing on the periphery of their awareness.
I wondered if they would even notice when I was no longer there.