Chapter 3: The Morning After
Chapter 3: The Morning After
The next morning, my phone started going off before the sun came up. It buzzed so insistently on Jenna’s coffee table that it slid across the surface, bumped my empty water bottle, and woke me from the first real sleep I’d had in days.
For a second, I forgot where I was. Then I saw Jenna’s beige ceiling instead of my old bedroom, and everything came rushing back.
I grabbed my phone. Missed calls from Mom. Missed calls from Dad. A string of texts from my brother Mason. Messages from Aunt Brenda. Even one from Grandma Evelyn, who usually only texted twice a year to say “Happy Easter” and “Love you, honey.”
I opened the family group chat first—the one my mother used like her personal PR channel. The last message before last night had been a photo of Mason’s college acceptance letter with a caption about how proud she was: Our sacrifices are worth it.
The new messages were nothing like that.
What is this, Linda? from Aunt Brenda.
Why does this thing say Ava paid half your mortgage for three months? from another relative.
Are these numbers real? from Grandma.
Above all of that was a forwarded email I recognized instantly—clean white background, blue header, the logo I’d designed for my little project. HomeFlow Monthly Breakdown. Underneath: lines and charts and percentages.
Under “Collins Household,” my app had laid everything out in brutally simple rows—my contributions in one column, my parents’ in another. What went to actual bills in green. What went to discretionary spending in red. Date stamps. Amounts. Categories like utilities, groceries, tuition, and my personal favorite: non-essential leisure, where my father’s fishing equipment and my mother’s online shopping trips lived.
Someone had hit reply all. That someone was Brenda.
I thought Ava was barely helping out, Linda. This looks like she’s been keeping you two afloat.
I could practically hear her voice through the text—tight and hurt.
I flipped to Mason’s messages. The most recent was in all caps: WHAT DID YOU DO?
Then another: Mom is crying. Dad is outside yelling at the neighbor about hackers and false numbers.
I rubbed my face and typed back: I didn’t fake anything. It’s your bank and card statements. Those numbers are yours.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again as he struggled to figure out what to say.
While I waited, I answered a random call. It was Aunt Brenda. She didn’t bother with hello.
“Ava, sweetie, are you safe?”
“Yes. I’m with Jenna.”
“Good.” She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath all morning. Then her tone sharpened. “Now tell me—did your parents really sell your car to pay Mason’s tuition after you paid for most of it yourself?”
That word—most—stung. “All,” I said. “I paid for all of it. They registered it in Mom’s name to save on insurance, then sold it without asking me.”
Brenda was quiet for a beat. In the background, I heard dishes clinking and the low hum of her bakery. “Your mother told us you stormed out because you didn’t want to help your brother,” she said finally. “She said you refused to contribute anything.”
I laughed without humor. “She’s had the passwords to that app for months. She’s seen the charts. She liked looking at the parts that made her feel noble. She just didn’t expect anyone else to see the rest.”
After I hung up, Jenna brought me coffee. “Judging by your face, it’s going exactly how you thought it would.”
I held up my phone. “The app sent the report. Mom’s crying. Dad’s blaming hackers. Aunt Brenda sounds like someone just ripped her blinders off.”
Another text from Mason appeared: Dad just tried to unplug the computer, but Grandma already called him. She asked why you’ve been paying so much. She’s pissed.
May you like
A second message followed: I had no idea it was that bad, Ava. I thought you just covered Wi-Fi sometimes.
I typed back: I did this so everyone would stop believing his version. I’m not asking anyone to pick sides. I’m just not taking the blame alone anymore.
