Chapter 9 - Natalie’s Truth
That evening, I did something I hadn't done in years. I drove to Natalie’s apartment complex on the industrial side of town.
It was an ugly, concrete-slab building surrounded by cracked asphalt. I climbed the stairs to the third floor, past the smell of fried onions and stale tobacco, and knocked on apartment 3B.
The door opened after a minute. It was Natalie, holding a basket of folded laundry. When she saw me, the rage wasn't there anymore. She just looked utterly hollowed out.
"The lawyers called me, Jess," she said before I could speak. "Carter's office."
"I didn't authorize them to threaten you," I said frantically. "I swear to God, Nat, I didn't."
"They didn't threaten me," she replied quietly. "They offered me a trust fund. Two million dollars for Chloe's medical care and education. Full title to a house in the suburbs. All expenses covered."
I exhaled a ragged breath. "Take it, Natalie. Please. For Chloe."
She stepped back into the doorway, leaving the door open. "Come inside."
The apartment was tiny, but it was spotless. The walls were decorated with Chloe’s finger paintings, framed in cheap dollar-store frames. In the corner sat a breathing machine—a new, clinical-grade nebulizer that hadn't been there last week.
"Mom bought that," Natalie said, noticing my gaze. "She took out a personal loan against her wedding ring to buy it on Tuesday. Because we couldn't wait for your guilt money to clear."
"Nat, why didn't you tell me Greg left?" I asked, my voice cracking. "Why didn't you tell me how bad it was?"
Natalie sat down on the worn fabric sofa. She folded a child's pair of leggings with meticulous precision.
"Because every time I spoke to you, Jessie, you looked at me like I was a problem to be solved," she said softly. "Even before you won the money. You were always the smart one, the organized one, the one who did everything right. When Greg took the rent money and cleared out the checking account, I was ashamed. I didn't want to come to my little sister on my knees."
"I never wanted you on your knees."
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"Yes, you did," she said, looking straight into my soul. "You wanted to be the savior. But saviors only exist if somebody else is drowning. You needed us to be struggling, Jess, because as long as we were weak, your money made you strong."
Her words stripped away the last layer of self-deception I had clung to. I sat down on the wooden chair across from her, buried my face in my hands, and wept like a child.
