Chapter 6
The café was quiet, tucked away in a neighborhood no one from the media would think to look.
I got there 10 minutes early.
Derek was already there, sitting at a table in the back, facing the door.
He gave me a small, tight smile when I walked in.
“They’re on their way,” he said.
I sat down across from him.
My hands were shaking a little.
For eight years, I’d dreamed of this moment. Of telling them exactly what I thought. Of making them understand.
Now that it was here?
I was terrified.
Five minutes later, they walked in.
Mom looked smaller than I remembered. Her hair was messy, no perfect blowout. She wasn’t wearing makeup.
Dad’s face was tight, his jaw clenched. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
They sat down.
No hello.
No hug.
Mom’s eyes darted to me, then away.
“Sarah,” she said, cold. “What do you want?”
I took a deep breath.
I didn’t yell.
I didn’t pull out the speech.
I just looked at them, and I started talking.
“I worked three jobs for eight years,” I said. “I ate noodles every night. I rode my bike through rainstorms because I couldn’t afford the bus. I saved every penny to get my PhD. To do work that helps millions of people. And you took it. You took every single dollar. And you told me my dream was a waste.”
My voice cracked a little.
“I graduated from Stanford,” I said. “I got my doctorate. And none of you were there. I fixed my own robe with a safety pin. I walked across that stage alone. And the only thing you could say to me was ‘did it go okay?’”
Tears were running down my face now.
I didn’t wipe them.
“You spent my whole life telling me I was less than,” I said. “That Derek deserved more. That I was a burden. That I’d never amount to anything. And when I proved you wrong? You called me ungrateful. You threatened to sue me. You told me I was dead to you.”
I stopped.
Looked at them.
Mom was crying now, too.
Dad was staring at the table, his face red.
“I don’t hate you,” I said, quiet. “But I will never, ever forget what you did. And I will never let you treat me like that again.”
I slid a piece of paper across the table.
The agreement Derek and I had drawn up.
“These are your options,” I said. “Sign this. Admit you stole the money. Return the remaining $53,528 within 30 days. Post a public apology on your Facebook page, the same one you used to brag about Derek to everyone you know. And never, ever speak about me or my work in public again without my permission.”
I paused.
“Or,” I said. “Derek cuts both of you off permanently. You will never see him again. Never go to his wedding. Never meet his kids. Nothing. And I will file a police report for theft. I will sue you for every penny you have. And I will win. We both know I will.”
Mom let out a sob.
“You can’t do this,” she said. “We’re your family. We gave you life!”
“You gave me life,” I said, cold. “But you spent 28 years trying to take it away.”
I stood up to leave.
Then Derek spoke.
His voice was steady. Firm.
“Sign it,” he said. “Or I walk out that door right now, and you will never hear from me again. I mean it. This is your only chance.”
Mom and Dad looked at him.
Then at me.
May you like
Then at each other.
Dad reached for the pen.
