I was holding a carton of ice cream Dad used to buy.
I stared at her.
“From my mother?”
She looked uncomfortable.
“She says there are questions about your service.”
“There aren’t questions about your service, Mrs. Pike. There are questions about the records she’s using.”
Mrs. Pike pressed her lips together.
“Then I’m sure you’ll clear it up.”
She walked away without saying goodbye.
Two days later, someone left a comment beneath an old photograph of Dad and me.
Funny how some people remember their parents only when there’s money involved.
I deleted nothing.
I responded to nothing.
Captain Vale had advised me to keep records of the public accusations but not turn the family dispute into an online war.
He was right.
Every response would have become another exhibit in my mother’s performance.
Still, silence had a cost.
People who had known me since childhood stopped saying hello.
A cashier who once asked about Dad’s health avoided my eyes.
At the funeral home, I had stood beside my mother while she accepted condolences.
Now she was telling those same people I had never cared whether he lived or died.
The worst moment came when I drove past Dad’s house one evening.
The living room lights were on.
I could see my mother through the curtains.
Liora was sitting across from her.
They were laughing.
I pulled to the curb.
For a moment, I considered knocking.
I wanted to ask how they could do this.
How they could take the years I had spent working, the sacrifices I had made, and the private love Dad and I had shared, then reduce everything to a story about a greedy daughter.
But I stayed in the car.
I knew what would happen if I knocked.
My mother would demand explanations I was not allowed to provide.
Liora would cry.
And by morning, the town would hear that I had stormed into the house and threatened two grieving women.
So I drove away.
That night, I called Captain Vale.
“I can’t keep doing this,” I told him.
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand.
“Doing what?”
“Letting them lie.”
He was quiet for a moment.
