To make matters worse, the other car had a woman and her teenage son inside. Both survived but were seriously hurt. The boy broke his leg and needed surgery. The mother had cracked ribs and a fractured arm. They were stuck in the hospital for weeks.
About a month later, Tracy got a letter. The woman and her son were suing her. Since the Jeep was registered in her name, she was legally responsible. She completely freaked out. The house, the insurance, and the court fees were all about to crash down on her.
That night, I came home from a late shift at the mechanic shop. She sat at the kitchen table, the same table I was not allowed to sit at when I was younger. Her face was pale, her hands trembling as she flipped through some legal papers.
A distressed senior woman sitting on a chair | Source: Pexels
When she looked up, I already knew what was coming.
“Ryan,” she said, “we need to talk.”
I dropped my backpack and crossed my arms. “About what?”
“I need your help. Please. I know you’ve been working hard. Two jobs, right? Maybe you could… help with the bills.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You mean the bills my inheritance already paid for?”
She flinched. “Don’t be petty. You can’t hold grudges forever.”
I stared at her, trying to process the nerve it took to sit there and ask me that. “You stole from me. You made me sleep in a basement. You fed me scraps and called me family only when it suited you.”
She sprang up. “I did what I had to do. You think it was easy raising two teenagers on my own?”
I shook my head. “You didn’t raise me. You tolerated me.”
A teenage boy standing in the kitchen and looking at someone | Source: Midjourney
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