Chapter 4
Carla filed for divorce two weeks later.
She wanted half the house. Half the savings. Spousal support. Custody of Mia — though Mia was eighteen, so that didn't matter. She claimed Dad was abusive. She claimed he'd destroyed her property (the bag). She claimed he'd thrown her out without cause.
Dad's lawyer was good. But Carla's was expensive — she'd borrowed money from her sister. The court battle was ugly.
Carla told everyone that Dad was a monster. That he'd cut up Mia's bag in a fit of rage. That he'd emotionally abused Mia for years. That I was a troubled teen who'd lied about the dress.
Mia didn't back her up.
When the lawyers called Mia to testify, she told the truth. All of it. The dress. The scissors. The lace. Carla defending her. Dad cutting the bag. Carla's years of favoritism. The way she'd taken my things. The way she'd encouraged Mia to be cruel.
Carla's lawyer tried to make Mia sound confused. Coached. But Mia was steady. She'd had time. She'd thought about it. She told the truth.
And then the bank records came out.
Dad's lawyer had subpoenaed Carla's accounts. And there it was. Over six years, nearly eighty thousand dollars transferred from Dad's joint account to accounts in Carla's name. And from there — to Mia. To shopping sprees. To the three-thousand-dollar bag. To trips. To cars. To a college fund for Mia — funded by money that was supposed to be in my college fund.
My college fund. The one my mother had left me. Two hundred thousand dollars. When I checked it — after the divorce started — there was less than thirty thousand left.
Carla had been stealing from me. For years. To give her daughter everything. While I worked two jobs to buy a dress.
I sat at the kitchen table, looking at the bank statements, and I shook. Not with sadness. With rage.
Dad looked at the papers. His face went white. "I didn't know," he whispered. "Aaliyah, I swear, I didn't know. She handled the money. I never — I never checked."
"I know, Dad," I said. And I did know. He'd been checked out. Just like all the other fathers in all the other stories. But he'd woken up. And that mattered.
The police got involved. The district attorney filed charges. Fraud. Grand theft. Embezzlement.
Carla was arrested at her sister's house. Mia was there. She watched them put handcuffs on her mother. She called me, crying.
"Aaliyah," she said. "They arrested Mom. What do I do?"
I was quiet. Then I said, "Mia. You're eighteen. You're an adult. You can get a job. You can go to community college. You can build your own life. You don't need her money. You never did."
She was quiet. Then she said, "Will you help me?"
I thought about it. The dress. The lace. The years. Then I said, "I'll send you the number for the community college. And a friend who's hiring. But that's it, Mia. You have to do the work."
"Okay," she said. "Okay. Thank you."
I hung up. I looked at Dad. He was watching me.
May you like
"You're a better person than me," he said.
I shook my head. "No. I'm just tired of being angry."
