My personal assistant earned $120,000 a year. My quarterly tax bill was more than Jasmine would earn in ten years.
And for them, it was the pinnacle of human achievement.
A chair creaks – heavily, deliberately. My father, Otis, is standing.
I could hear him raise a crystal goblet filled with the wine they had taken from me.
“Silence, everyone, silence, please,” he boomed, his voice thick with pride and alcohol. “I’d like to make a toast to my daughter Jasmine.”
He paused for effect.
“For years, your mother and I prayed for a sign. We prayed that our legacy would not end in shame.”
A rhythm.
“We looked at your sister and we despaired. We saw wasted potential. We saw mediocrity. We saw a dead end.”
I stopped chewing.
The cornbread turned to dust in my mouth.
He didn’t just compliment her.
He was burying me.
“But God is good,” Otis continued, his voice rising. “He gave us Jasmine. You are the answer to our prayers. You are proof that we did our job as parents right. Finally, this family has a child who brings honor to the name of Washington, someone who commands respect, someone who earns a good living.”
He pushed the knife in deeper without even looking for blood.
“You erased the shame of having a failed firstborn. To Jasmine, the true heir of this family.”
“Here, here!” Chad shouted.
The clinking of glasses – a symphony of recognition for them, a death knell for me.
I stared at the closed kitchen door.
A lone tear rolled down my cheek. I wiped it away, angry at my own weakness.
They called me a disappointment. They called me a disgrace.
My father had just disinherited me in every way except on official documents, and he thought that Jasmine’s hundred thousand pounds represented a fortune.
He never imagined that this “failure” in the kitchen could buy up his entire neighborhood and turn it into a parking lot without even checking his accounts.
I took a sip of water from my paper cup.
“Enjoy your toast, Dad,” I murmured into the empty room. “Because that champagne will taste like vinegar when you find out who’s really paying the bills in this town.”
The kitchen door opened suddenly.
Chad entered with a nonchalant gait, carrying an empty silver ice bucket. Tie undone, collar unbuttoned: the very image of a man lounging in his kingdom.
He stopped when he saw me at the game table with my cardboard water cup. His gaze swept over me with amusement and pity.
“Well, look at this,” he said, laughing, before heading towards the freezer. “Our little Cinderella, dining elegantly. I hope you like the plastic fork. I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
I ignored him, staring at the wall. I didn’t have the energy to argue with a man whose greatest achievement was marrying a woman from a family that mistook mediocrity for excellence.
Chad filled the bucket with ice, the ice cubes clattering loudly in the silence.
