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That night, I pulled the car out of the garage and parked it directly in front of Claire’s driveway.
Then, I walked over and knocked on her door.
“Hi!” she said, like we were old friends.
I didn’t smile back. “Are you sure you don’t want to pay my mother for the work she did?”
Claire tilted her head.
“What work?” she asked, blinking as if I’d just asked her to explain quantum physics. “Your mom didn’t work. She was just helping out.”
I stared at her.
She actually believed that.
Claire had convinced herself that my mom’s time and effort were worth nothing because she wasn’t 25 with a LinkedIn account.
I nodded. Said nothing else. Walked away.
I drove to my daughter’s place.
Her name’s Erin.
She’s 28, and she has a friend named Riley who runs a pretty popular YouTube channel. Riley does local stories — not true crime or viral stunts, but real people, real drama, real receipts.
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