Chapter 8 - The Confrontation at the Kitchen Table
When I walked back through the front door, keys jingling in my pocket, Harrison and Sloan were sitting at the kitchen island. Sloan was sipping artisanal coffee from one of my best china cups, while Harrison was scrolling mindlessly through his phone.
They didn't look up immediately. When Harrison finally noticed me, he let out an annoyed sigh. “Where have you been, Mom? We’ve been waiting for you to unlock the pantry. We’re out of organic creamer.”
I didn't answer right away. I placed my car keys on the counter, walked over to the refrigerator, and pulled out the legal notice I had drafted earlier that morning, sliding it across the marble surface directly in front of them.
Sloan scoffed, glancing down at the paper. “What is this childish nonsense now?”
“It’s a thirty-day formal notice to vacate,” I said, my voice remarkably even. “Effective immediately, your access to the main house is restricted. Furthermore, Harrison, I visited the bank this morning.”
Harrison’s face drained of color instantly. The smug irritation vanished, replaced by sudden, panicked darting of his eyes. “The... the bank?”
“Eighty-four thousand dollars, Harrison,” I said, stepping closer so he could see the cold determination in my eyes. “Drained from the emergency account your father and I built. Stolen from a fund meant for medical crises, while you sat in my house, ate my food, and let your wife humiliate me on my birthday.”
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Sloan slammed her coffee cup down, frosting her face with fake outrage. “Are you seriously accusing us over a bank account? You gave him access! You wanted to help your son!”
“I trusted my son,” I corrected her sharply, turning my gaze to her. “A trust he traded away to fund your designer handbags and superficial lifestyle. But that era is officially over.”
