My parents sold my daughter’s cello for a hundred thousand dollars. It was a gift from her great-grandmother. They spent the money on a swimming pool for my sister’s kids. When my grandmother found out, she didn’t cry. She just hugged me and said, “Don’t you worry, sweetheart.”
In the large house in an upscale subdivision outside Charlotte, owned by great-grandmother Eleanor Vance, an unspoken hierarchy had long been established. Everyone followed the rules, even those who suffered under them. Living there were her daughter, Patricia, and her husband, Michael Filatov. Their younger daughter, Karen, also lived there with her husband, Kevin, and their two children: 7-year-old Mason and 5-year-old Amelia—a name they’d chosen because it sounded unique and sophisticated.
Karen and Kevin’s “temporary” stay had stretched into a permanent arrangement. They were supposedly saving for their own house, but years passed, money vanished, and nothing changed. Everyone had grown so used to it that no one bothered to ask when they might finally move out.
“Mason, sweetie, no running in the hall,” Karen would call out absently, the way one might say “pass the salt,” with no real expectation of being obeyed. It was just for show, to prove she was parenting.
Mason would continue his rampage, bumping into walls and knocking over vases, while Grandpa Michael would just chuckle, lower his newspaper, and praise the boy’s “healthy lungs,” adding something about raising a “real go-getter.”
If Amelia demanded attention, which was constantly, Karen would scoop her up, twirl her around the living room, and coo about her little princess, while Grandma Patricia watched with a doting smile.
Karen’s children could scream, spill juice on the Persian rugs, and scatter toys everywhere, and it was all dismissed as charming childhood energy that would be cruel to suppress…
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