“What’s this, Mom?” Karen asked, her smile faltering slightly.
“Open it,” my mother said. Her voice was steady, the voice of a matriarch who had raised four children on a farm and didn’t tolerate rot.
Karen opened the envelope. Inside were the 6 photos I had taken through her kitchen window, along with three years of bank statements showing the monthly transfers from my savings account.
Karen’s face went completely white. She looked at the photos, then at me, then at our mother.
“Mom, this is a misunderstanding,” Karen stammered, her voice rising in panic. “Mark was just helping me. I was lonely, and I didn’t have anyone…”
“You took your sister’s husband,” my mother said, her voice carrying across the quiet dining room. Several people at nearby tables turned to look. “And you took her money. You used her past struggles to blackmail a weak man.”
My Aunt Linda gasped, reaching for the photos. Within two minutes, the envelope was passed down the table. My uncles shook their heads. My cousins looked at Karen with disgust.
“You are no longer welcome in my home, Karen,” my mother said. “And you are no longer welcome at this table. Get up.”
Karen looked around the table, searching for an ally. But she found nothing but cold, hard stares. She stood up, her expensive heels clicking loudly on the linoleum floor, and ran out of the restaurant, leaving her purse behind.
My uncle Jerry picked up her purse and handed it to the waitress. “She won’t be needing dessert,” he said flatly.
We finished our dinner. We talked about Lilly’s school, my aunt’s garden, and the upcoming county fair. We didn’t mention Karen again.
That was six months ago.
Mark’s lawyer tried to fight for a portion of my retirement savings during the divorce proceedings, but once my lawyer presented the bank statements showing the unauthorized transfers to Karen, they settled quickly. Mark walked away with his Buick, his toolbox, and nothing else.
I bought a new salt and pepper shaker set last week. They are bright yellow, shaped like little lemons. They don’t have any chips or cracks.
Yesterday, Lilly and I were in the kitchen making cookies. She was covered in flour, laughing as she tried to lick the spoon.
I looked at the lemon salt shaker sitting on the clean counter. The sun was coming through the window, warming the room.
I don’t know what the future holds, but for the first time in three years, the water in my house runs perfectly clear.
✓
End of story — Part 5 of 5
