Chapter 8: The Apology Everyone Heard
Stacy stared at the screen as the viewer count climbed.
Twenty-three.
Sixty-one.
One hundred and nine.
“I lied,” she began.
Her voice shook, but she didn’t stop.
“My mother never promised me a Tesla.
She and my father bought me a safe car, and I acted like they had given me something shameful.”
Comments moved beneath her face.
She read one and swallowed.
“Yes, the Corolla is real.
No, it wasn’t a prank.”
My husband stood behind the camera.
I sat across from her, close enough to reach her but far enough to let the words remain hers.
“I also made posts about a friend because I wanted other people to accept me.
I knew those posts were cruel when I made them.”
A comment asked whether her parents were forcing her.
“No,” Stacy said.
“They required me to correct the lie.
They didn’t write this.”
Another comment appeared.
“So you still hate the car?”
Stacy looked toward the front window.
The Corolla was visible beneath the porch light.
“I hated what I thought it said about me.
Now I know my reaction said more.”
The viewer count passed five hundred.
Madison’s name appeared in the comments.
“You’re blaming us to save yourself.”
Stacy read it aloud.
“No.
I’m saying what I did.
You can say what you did.”
Madison left the livestream.
Stacy took a breath.
“Emma, if you’re watching, I am sorry.
Mom, I’m sorry I turned your generosity into something I thought I could control.”
I pressed my lips together, but tears slipped down my face.
Stacy reached across the table and took my hand.
“I’m especially sorry I said you always cave.”
I squeezed her fingers.
“I’m sorry I tried to protect you from every disappointment.
I left you unprepared for one.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“Yes, I do.
Loving you doesn’t mean every choice I made was right.”
My husband ended the broadcast after Stacy finished.
Nobody moved for several seconds.
Then the front door opened.
My mother stepped inside carrying a battered grocery notebook.
“Grandma?” Stacy said.
“Your father called me.”
She placed the notebook in front of Stacy.
Its pages were filled with faded prices and totals.
“This belonged to your mother when she was younger.”
Stacy looked at me.
“You kept track of groceries?”
“I helped my mother decide what we could put back.”
My mother tapped one page.
“Your mom once crossed her own birthday cake off this list so you could have medicine when you were a baby.”
“Mom,” I whispered.
“No more hiding the hard parts,” she said.
Stacy covered her mouth.
I went around the table, and she stood so quickly her chair tipped backward.
“I didn’t know,” she sobbed against my shoulder.
“You weren’t supposed to carry my childhood,” I said.
“But you do need to respect what other people carry.”
My mother waited until we sat down again.
“There is one more thing.”
She pulled an envelope from the notebook and set it before Stacy.
“The money your parents didn’t spend on the Tesla is still there.”
May you like
Stacy reached for it, but my mother kept one finger on the envelope.
“It is not yours.”
