My name is Aurora. I am thirty-six years old and I live in Seattle. I was sitting in a glass-walled boardroom downtown, surrounded by people who respected me.
This was the biggest meeting of my year. My phone was face down on the table, but it vibrated against the wood. I usually ignore it during meetings.
Today, for some reason, I turned it over. The screen lit up. It was a notification from Instagram.
My mother. I slid the phone closer to my hand. I shouldn’t have looked, but I did.
My heart stopped for a second. The photo was bright and sunny. It showed my mother, my father, and my sisters.
They were laughing. They were holding glasses of white wine. Behind them was a view I knew better than my own face: the wide wooden deck, the blue infinity pool, the Pacific Ocean stretching out to the horizon.
They were in my Malibu beach house. I stared at the screen. I had not given them the keys.
I had not told them they could go. They didn’t even ask me. They were vacationing in my home, a home I bought with my own hard work, completely behind my back.
Then I read the caption. “Finally, peace without the drama.”
I felt sick. The “drama” was me.
They were enjoying my house and my money specifically because I wasn’t there. My name is Aurora. I am thirty-six years old.
I sat there in the boardroom. The air conditioner hummed low in the background. My phone was in my hand, burning a hole in my palm.
The investor, a man named Robert who had flown in from New York, was talking about scalability and market share. I nodded. I kept my face calm.
I had practiced this face in the mirror for years. It was my business face. It meant nothing could hurt me.
But under the table, my thumb hovered over the screen. I unlocked my phone again. I had to look.
I knew it was poison, but I had to drink it. I opened Instagram. The picture loaded instantly.
It wasn’t just one picture. It was a carousel. My mother had posted ten photos—ten proofs of her theft.
In the first photo, she was sitting on my white linen outdoor sofa. I bought that sofa six months ago. I had it imported from Italy.
I remembered telling my mother on the phone:
“I finally furnished the deck. It’s white and delicate, so no red wine.”
In the photo, she was holding a glass of red wine. She was resting her feet, wearing dirty sandals, right on the white cushion.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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