My mother placed her hand on the will and said, You won’t get a penny.’ I smiled. Okay, then don’t expect a penny from me either.’ I put down my plate and stood up. A few weeks later, calls started coming from my brother, my mother, even numbers I didn’t recognize, as if I were their backup plan. I answered once and said, ‘Do you all remember that dinner?’

“You will not get a single cent, Tasha.”

My mother, Bernice, placed her manicured hand on the will and looked me straight in the eye. The diamonds on her fingers caught the light of the crystal chandelier.

“All right,” I smiled. “Then do not expect a single cent from me, either.”

I slowly set my fork and knife down and stood up.

The table went silent—then erupted in laughter.

They thought I was joking. They thought I was the broke freelance clerk living in a studio apartment.

They had no idea that I was the one keeping the lights on in this mansion.

Two weeks later, nightmare struck.

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