For three years, I had been secretly covering my parents’ mortgage after Dad’s construction company collapsed. Twenty-four hundred dollars every month automatically withdrawn from my account while Mom told the rest of the family they were “doing just fine.” I never corrected her because I didn’t want Dad humiliated.
Then Mason dragged his fork through mashed potatoes, looked directly at me, and spit onto my plate.
The sound was small.
Wet.
Disgusting.
For one long second, nobody moved.
Then Mason smirked and said, “Dad says you deserve it.”
I looked directly at Derek.
He smiled into his drink.
Lauren gave a tiny uncomfortable laugh—the kind people use when cruelty embarrasses them just enough to notice but not enough to stop.
“Mason,” I said quietly, “why would you do that?”
He shrugged casually. “Because you act rich and better than everybody.”
My father cleared his throat but stayed silent.
My mother sighed dramatically like somehow I caused the problem. “Rachel, don’t make a scene. He’s just a child.”
“He spit in my food,” I said.
Eric laughed openly. “Honestly, you do walk in here like you’re the queen of the family.”
I looked around the table.
These were the same people whose utility bills I paid.
