Chapter 2 - The Sister Who Was Supposed to Be Broke
Maren locked the front door after Darlene left.
Her hands were shaking badly enough that she missed the deadbolt the first time.
June had quieted after feeding, but Maren kept her against her shoulder anyway. She needed the weight of her daughter there.
Her phone buzzed.
CLARA.
Maren answered immediately.
“Did you talk to Mom?”
A pause.
Then Clara said, “She called me screaming.”
Maren sank onto the sofa beside the torn stroller packaging.
“She tried to take June’s stroller and sell it for your rent.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“My rent?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Maren, I paid rent Tuesday.”
Maren closed her eyes.
“You told me last week Mom was only giving you half.”
“Because I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
Clara exhaled.
For most of their adult lives, the sisters had been close in theory and distant in practice. Clara, twenty-seven, worked as a respiratory therapist at Edward Hospital and had never been as financially reckless as Darlene claimed. But their mother constantly described her as struggling.
Maren had believed it.
She had sent money.
Sometimes six hundred dollars.
Sometimes twelve hundred.
Always through Darlene.
Mom said Clara would be embarrassed if Maren sent it directly.
“She gave me six hundred last month,” Clara said. “She said you couldn’t afford the full amount because of the baby.”
“I sent twelve hundred.”
Silence.
Maren looked toward the bassinet.
“What?”
“I sent twelve hundred dollars.”
Clara made a small sound.
Not surprise exactly.
Recognition.
“Maren…”
“What?”
“For the past three months, Mom’s been asking me for money for you.”
Maren sat straighter.
“For me?”
“She said your insurance didn’t cover everything after the delivery.”
“My insurance covered exactly what I expected.”
Clara’s voice became quieter.
“I sent her eight hundred last month.”
Maren stopped breathing for a moment.
“I never got eight hundred dollars.”
“She said you didn’t want to ask me directly.”
A cold realization moved through Maren.
The exact same explanation.
Different daughter.
Same mother.
Same shame.
Same middleman.
Maren looked at the torn stroller box again.
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Clara.”
“I honestly don’t know.”
June shifted softly.
Maren lowered her voice.
“Pull every transfer you made to Mom this year.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m doing the same thing.”
Clara didn’t answer immediately.
May you like
Then she said something Maren would remember for months.
“I don’t think either of us has been helping the person we thought we were helping.”
