Chapter 2 - The Silence in the Room
The silence in our living room was so heavy I could hear the hum of the refrigerator humming from down the hall.
Dana froze with a ball of shiny red wrapping paper crushed in her manicured hand. The smug, condescending smile that had been plastered across her face all morning vanished, replaced by a sudden, sickly pale stiffness.
Dad blinked, looking between his mother and his wife. "Mom, what are you talking about? What four hundred dollars?"
Grandma Ruth didn't blink. She sat upright on the floral armchair, her spine straight as an arrow, resting both hands firmly on the head of her polished wooden cane. Her sharp blue eyes were locked directly onto Dana.
"Three weeks ago, Adam," Grandma said, her voice calm, clear, and deadly steady. "Dana called me. She told me Natalie was dying for that professional drawing tablet. She said you two were tight on money this month with the furnace repair, but she wanted to make sure Natalie felt special. She asked if I could cover it. So I sent four hundred dollars directly to her personal Venmo."
I felt the air leave my lungs. Four hundred dollars. Grandma had sent enough money to buy the exact tablet I had pinned to my vision board for six months. The tablet I had dreamed about using to enter the statewide youth art contest.
"Dana?" Dad’s voice dropped an octave. It wasn't loud, but the confusion had instantly turned into a deep, vibrating edge of suspicion. "Did Mom send you four hundred dollars?"
Dana swallowed hard. She dropped the crumpled wrapping paper and let out a high-pitched, nervous chuckle that grated on my ears. "Oh, honey, don't be ridiculous. Of course Ruth sent money. But... there was a terrible misunderstanding. I thought it was a general contribution for the holidays!"
"A general contribution?" Grandma Ruth echoed, her eyebrows arching high above her silver frames. "Dana, the memo line on the transfer literally said, *'For Natalie's tablet and stylus from Grandma.'* I didn't write *'general contribution.'* I wrote my granddaughter's name."
Mason stopped playing with the remote-control car in his hands. Even at twelve, he knew the difference between an honest mistake and a caught lie. He looked up at his mother, his eyes darting between her flushed cheeks and the towering pile of unopened games and clothes sitting at his feet.
"Mom?" Mason murmured quietly. "Did you use Natalie's money for my console?"
Dana’s eyes widened in panic, and for a split second, she looked cornered like an alley cat. "Mason, be quiet! Adults are speaking!" she snapped, her mask slipping completely.
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Dad stood up slowly from the couch, his lukewarm coffee sitting forgotten on the side table. "Adam, let me explain," Dana pleaded, taking a step toward him with her hands out. "With inflation and everything, things just got out of hand. Mason had nothing left from his old school, and Natalie already has so many sketchpads—"
"She has scraps of printer paper, Dana," Dad interrupted, his voice trembling with anger. "And you bought her eight-dollar socks."
