I wish you the best.
I read it three times.
Then I hit send.
For the first time in eight years, I felt light.
They got the email at 4:37 p.m. on a Tuesday.
I know because that’s when the calls started.
The first call came from my mother at 4:41 p.m. I let it go to voicemail.
“Sarah, what is this email? What are you talking about? Call me immediately.”
Second call, 4:43 p.m.
Voicemail again.
“Sarah, this is ridiculous. If you have something to say, you say it to my face, not in some passive-aggressive email. Call me back.”
Third call, 4:47 p.m.
“Sarah Mitchell, you pick up this phone right now. We need to talk about this accusation you’re making.”
By 6 p.m., I had seventeen missed calls.
I turned my phone on Do Not Disturb and focused on making Emma dinner.
The next morning, I woke up to forty-three missed calls and twenty-nine text messages.
I scrolled through them while drinking my coffee, Emma playing with her blocks on the living room floor.
The messages followed a predictable pattern.
First, denial.
You’re obviously confused about something. Marcus handles our finances, not you.
Then anger.
