I pause, spoon in the air, immediately locked in on her announcement.
“You know what? I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,” she says, defiantly lifting her chin. “I’m going to amend all of your trust funds.”
A collective gasp goes up around the table.
“Our trust funds…?”
My cousins and half-sisters exchange looks.
“Yes, that’s right.” Great-grandma squares her slender shoulders. “I’m going to call my lawyer first thing in the morning. So not only will you have to wait until your twenty-seventh birthday to be eligible to collect your money, but now you’ll also need to be married.”
My spoon clatters loudly as it falls into my bowl.W-w-wait!!
Cousin Toby fumbles his wine glass and maroon liquid spills across the white table cloth. “What?!”
“Yes. You heard me,” Great-Grandma goes ahead, unbothered.
Married?!
My birthday is only months away. I’ve put in the time. All the torturous monthly family dinners that I’ve been attending for years. I’ve already bookmarked the webpages of all the business purchases I plan to make. I have meetings lined up to look at storage facilities.
And now, I won’t see a dime unless I’mmarried?!
Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck.
No one notices my shock as grumbles of discontent fill the dining room. My cousins and my prissy, spoiled half-sisters are all too busy panicking about their own hides. They all start talking at once.
“A morality clause!?”
“No way. That’s our money!”
“You can’t change the parameters of our trust funds! You can’t do this!”
“I’m calling Dad!”
Great-Grandma grunts, completely unfazed by the temper tantrums happening around the table. See? This woman doesn’t take shit from anyone. Especially not her bratty, entitled great-grandchildren.
“Oh yes, I can. Watch me,” Great-Grandma boasts, before snatching up her tumbler of Negroni and waltzing out of the room.
The family continues to bicker, everyone pointing fingers at someone else, eager to find the perfect person to blame since Great-Grandma is no longer here for target practice.
Cousin Toby gets called out for starring in an ‘artsy’ porno back in his college days. My youngest half-sister, Hilary, is reminded of the coke-snorting pictures the family’s legal team worked tirelessly to get scrubbed from the internet a few summers back. A finger gets pointed in my direction for being a bastard baby.
My gosh—this family’s a mess.
Who knew it would be Gina’s, quote-unquote, ‘impregnated’ state that would finally push the Lannister matriarch over the edge? I’m shaking my damn head.
Appetite gone, I gulp down the last of my drink, clear my dishes, and carry them into the kitchen. No one notices my exit. Or if they do, no one asks where I’m going. No one cares whether I’m here at the dining room table, or if I’m in the street, getting hit by a bus.
I’m not being a drama queen.I’m just stating facts.
I rinse off the fine china and start loading the dishes into the dishwasher, even though Great-Grandma has hired help to take care of her messes. It’s a habit, I guess.
I grew up in a household where I watched my mother sifting through the consequences of her own messes every single day. She taught me that independent women can’t afford to sit around and wait for some perfect savior to swoop in and pick up the pieces. She told me thatmylife ismyresponsibility, no-one else’s.
That lesson is taking on a whole new meaning now that I’ve had my trust fund yanked from right under me.
I don’t have a backup plan. I know better—I should have had a backup plan.Shit.
