“My friend’s parents are letting me stay in their basement.”
“Why?”
“After the party, everything got worse. Dad blamed me for ruining his reputation. Mom kept asking me to contact relatives and explain that you manipulated me.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Eventually.”
He absorbed the word without arguing.
“I know I don’t get credit for doing the right thing after benefiting from the wrong thing.”
That was another answer I hadn’t expected.
I sat across from him.
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
“People usually say that before asking for something.”
“I want to apologize.”
“You already did.”
“By text. That was easy.”
He placed the card on the table between us.
“I saw the favoritism. I pretended I didn’t because I liked being chosen.”
I watched his face carefully.
“When Dad bought me the car, I knew you had asked for a laptop. When Mom skipped your award ceremony for my practice, I knew practice wasn’t mandatory. When they made that party for me, I knew it was your birthday.”
“You said you didn’t.”
“I didn’t know they planned to humiliate you. But I knew the date. I knew you thought the decorations were for you.”
There it was.
A truth buried beneath a smaller lie.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I wanted the phone.”
His voice broke on the last word.
I looked toward the courtyard.
For months, part of me had treated Mason as another victim. Not equally harmed, but used by our parents.
Now I understood the more complicated truth.
He had been used.
He had also participated.
“You watched me open that card,” I said.
“I know.”
“You laughed.”
“I know.”
“You cropped me out of the photos.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“I know.”
“No apology changes what that moment taught me.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do. It wasn’t just that they preferred you. You helped them erase me.”
Mason nodded slowly.
“I did.”
He didn’t ask me to forgive him.
That mattered, but not enough.
“I don’t hate you,” I said. “But I don’t trust you.”
His eyes reddened.
“That’s fair.”
“Maybe someday that changes. Maybe it doesn’t.”
“I know.”
For a while, we sat without speaking.
Then he asked, “Are you happy?”
I thought about the question.
My life wasn’t easy. I worked, studied, worried about money, and sometimes woke from dreams in which I was standing in our old kitchen while everyone laughed.
But I owned my choices.
“Yes,” I said. “I am.”
Mason smiled faintly.
“Good.”
He stood to leave, then pushed the card toward me.
“I wrote something underneath.”
After he walked away, I opened it.
Below Mom’s words—Be more like him—Mason had written:
I’m sorry. I should have been more like you.
I felt no victory.
No sudden brotherly love.
Only sadness for two boys raised inside a competition neither had created, and anger at the one who had chosen to keep winning.
I carried the card toward the nearest trash can.
Before I reached it, my phone rang from an unknown number.
When I answered, a lawyer introduced herself and said my parents were requesting a formal family mediation.
Then she explained what they were actually trying to get from me.
### Part 12
The lawyer’s name was Rebecca Holt.
She spoke in a calm, polished voice designed to make unreasonable things sound administrative.
“Your parents hope to resolve the current conflict privately.”
“There’s nothing to resolve.”
“They are concerned about ongoing reputational damage.”
“That sounds like their problem.”
She paused.
“They would like you to remove the video, withdraw written accusations, and sign a statement confirming that the birthday incident was misunderstood.”
I looked at the card in my hand.
“What would I receive?”
Another pause.
“Your parents are prepared to offer financial assistance with college.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because they still believed everything had a price.
“How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
For a moment, I pictured what that money could do.
I could stop working double shifts.
I could buy a reliable laptop, pay future housing costs, and create an emergency fund. Twenty-five thousand dollars was more money than I had ever possessed.
The temptation embarrassed me.
Ms. Holt continued.
“The agreement would also require you not to discuss your family publicly in the future.”
“There it is.”
“Mr. Mercer believes this is a generous opportunity for everyone to move forward.”
“Tell him no.”
“You may want time to consider.”
“I’ve considered it.”
“Ethan—”
“My eighteenth birthday cost them less than twenty dollars. Now they want to spend twenty-five thousand pretending it never happened.”
She didn’t respond.
I dropped the card into the trash.
“Tell them I’m not for sale.”
I ended the call.
That evening, I told Claire.
She slapped both palms against her kitchen counter.
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