I sent her everything that night. The invoice, the website PDF, the screenshots, my notes.
An hour later, around ten-thirty, Mom called again.
This time I answered.
“Who are the people at the hotel, Mom?”
She let out a long breath. I could hear a television in the background, French voices, and the hum of an air conditioner.
“Talia is trying to do something with her life, Nina.”
“Using my photograph?”
“She needed credibility. People trust you. You have that kind of face.”
I closed my eyes.
“You knew.”
“She was going to explain it to you.”
“When?”
“Nina, please. There are people standing here.”
“How many people?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom. Did you know before you left?”
For several long seconds, I heard voices in the background. A man asking something in an American accent. Talia answering him, bright and fake.
Then Mom said, “Your sister needed support.”
I looked at the leather folder lying face-down on my counter.
“And I needed to stay home,” I said. “That’s what this was. I needed to stay home so I wouldn’t see.”
She didn’t deny it.
She just didn’t say anything at all.
That silence would stay with me for a very long time.
Dad called ten minutes after she hung up.
“Your sister made some mistakes.”
“What mistakes?”
“She expected the arrangements to work out.”
“Whose arrangements?”
“The rooms. The activities. The excursion.”
“My arrangements, Dad. She sold my arrangements.”
He didn’t answer that.
“Who took the customers’ money?”
“Talia.”
“Where is it?”
“We’re trying to establish that.”
I reached for my notebook.
We. My whole life, we had been my father’s favorite word when the work was eventually going to land on me.
We need to help your sister with her rent.
We need to be reasonable about the car.
We can’t let your sister fail.
When Talia dropped out of community college, we paid back the loan. Except I paid it, $6,200, because Dad’s back was bad that year and he was on disability. When Talia’s car got repossessed, we helped her get a new one. I co-signed. When she missed four payments, the collections calls came to me, and my credit score dropped forty-one points.
“I’m getting independent legal advice,” I said.
“You’d bring lawyers into this? Against your own family?”
“My name is on invoices I’ve never seen, Dad.”
“You’ll ruin her.”
“Then tell her to stop using my name.”
He hung up.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
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