Chapter 4 - The Theater of Entitlement
"How dare you!" Beatrice’s voice shrieked through the speaker, so piercing that Oliver winced and turned down the volume on my phone. "How dare you use that word about your own flesh and blood! Trevor is trying to provide for his family after a very difficult quarter, Jewel! We explained this to you yesterday!"
"You didn't explain anything yesterday, Mom. You announced that you stole over eleven thousand dollars from me."
"It wasn't stealing! You gave me that card!"
"I gave you that card for Dad's heart medication and groceries when I was performing in Munich three years ago," I said, my tone remaining flat, almost clinical. "I did not give you that card to finance a luxury Christmas for Trevor’s kids while my children sat on your floor opening absolutely nothing."
"You are so bitter!" she cried out. "Always keeping score! Rosie and Finn don't need anything, they have two working parents! Trevor is launching an enterprise! When his capital clears next week, he was going to pay every single penny back! But now, because of your petty little temper tantrum, his corporate deposit bounced, and he’s facing cancellation fees!"
"Then he should have used his own money," I said. "Or yours."
"You know we live on a fixed pension!" Beatrice barked.
"Then you had no business promising him eleven thousand dollars of my money," I shot back. "Listen to me very carefully, Beatrice. The card is locked. It will remain locked. Furthermore, I have a PDF export of every single charge made on that card over the last thirty days. You and Trevor have until five o'clock tomorrow afternoon to wire that full amount into my account."
A stunned silence hung in the air for three whole seconds.
"And if we don't?" she asked, her voice dropping into a venomous hiss. "What are you going to do, Jewel? Sue your own parents? Send the police to arrest your brother during the holidays? You wouldn't dare disgrace this family like that."
"Try me," I said, and ended the call.
I looked at Oliver. He was leaning against the table, his arms crossed, watching me with a mixture of pride and concern.
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"You think they’ll pay?" he asked quietly.
"Trevor doesn't have eleven thousand dollars to his name," I said, shaking my head. "If he did, he wouldn't have needed Mom to swipe my card for an espresso machine and a drone. No, they aren't going to pay. They’re going to counterattack."
