What neither of them ever brought up was that, for the past five years, I had been paying a major portion of the monthly mortgage for the cozy condo Paige had bought out in Madison. On the fifteenth of every month, without fail, the funds were automatically transferred from my account.
My sister boasted to everyone that she fully supported herself, and I had never bothered to contradict her.
That afternoon, I brought Gemma to a modest motel near the central bus station. The room was tiny, containing only a twin bed, a single chair, a small sink, and a high window overlooking a alley.
It wasn’t luxury, but nobody in that room could ever pull a plate of food away from my little girl again.
When Gemma finally fell asleep, I pulled out my phone and opened a note I had saved two years ago, titled PLAN B. I had started drafting it the first time my mother grumbled that Gemma was becoming too expensive to feed.
I typed a fresh entry: “Sunday. Plan activated.”
