« I told her if she sues you, she’ll sue me too. I was part of that account. She didn’t like it. » He paused. « But Abby, she won’t stop there. You have to see what she’s doing now. »
He sent me a screenshot. It was Lauren’s Facebook profile—public, of course. She’d posted a long, performative post about how she’d been « betrayed by her family, » how her sister had « sabotaged her child’s future, » and how « money makes people cruel. » She didn’t mention me by name, but anyone with half a brain could piece it together.
But it wasn’t the post that convinced me; it was the comments section.
One of her friends wrote, « What a snake. You should expose her. »
Lauren replied, « I already did. Here’s her work email. Here you go. »
My name, my company, my contact information, all in the comments, visible to dozens of strangers. With a short note: « Let her know what we think. »
People were already starting to respond.
I clicked on my inbox. There were three new emails from people I didn’t even know. The first: « You’re disgusting. How can you sleep at night? » The second: « You hate your family so much, why don’t you just disappear? » The third: « I hope your boss sees this. You should be fired. »
My stomach tightened, but only for a second. Then something else happened. Not fear, not even rage. Clarity. Lauren had officially crossed a line. Publicizing my work was a deliberate move. Not impulsive, not on a whim. She wanted to hurt me, embarrass me, maybe even threaten my livelihood. And for what? For my decision to no longer fund her lifestyle. She wanted war. She simply declared it. And I didn’t back down.
Wednesday morning, I received emails from strangers calling me heartless, opinionated, and selfish. One wrote that I « probably can’t find a man, » so I « punish women who can. » Another said « karma » would catch up with me soon. All because Lauren had armed herself with her pity parade and thrown my work email into the fire.
I sat in my office, the door closed, staring at my monitor. I hadn’t told HR yet. I wasn’t even sure if I needed to, but I secretly wanted to do it sooner, just in case. The last thing I needed was one of those trolls finding the company’s social media and starting a campaign. People were relentless these days, and Lauren clearly didn’t care who she dragged into her mess, as long as she didn’t have to look in the mirror.
That afternoon, I got a call from an unknown number. I answered.
« Is this Abigail Caldwell? » « Yes? »
« This is attorney Michelle Langston. I’m calling on behalf of Lauren Caldwell regarding an informal warning. She asked me to contact her before taking any formal legal action. I’m obligated to ask: Would you be open to mediation? »
I paused. « Are you serious? »
« Madam, you claim there was a long-standing verbal agreement that you would fund your nephew’s private education. She also believes that this sudden withdrawal has caused significant emotional and financial harm. »
I laughed. « A verbal agreement made as part of a ‘family obligation’ is not a contract. Besides, I never agreed to fund Carter’s education for the next decade. I didn’t even agree to fund hers for two full years. I simply continued doing so. That’s all. »
« I understand, » the attorney said. « This is just a preliminary discussion. She hasn’t submitted anything yet. »
I hung up. Not impertinently, but firmly. There was only noise. Desperate noise.
« Well, Dad, they really do have a lawyer, » I said.
He sighed. « I figured. I told you, Abby. Lauren never heard ‘no’ without a safety net. But it’s time she did. I’m talking to our family lawyer tonight. Let me handle this. » Then he asked something strange. « Are you free tomorrow night? »
« Yes. Why? »
He hesitated for half a second. « We’ll have a family dinner. Just immediate family. That’s what I call it. »
« What? Why? »
« Because it’s ending now. »
I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell them to let them scream into the void without me. But something in his voice told me this wasn’t going to be another round of apologies. This wasn’t going to be Mom trying to smooth things over and Lauren pretending to cry. Dad was taking control for the first time in years. And if he was coming, I wanted to see it.
Thursday evening arrived faster than I expected. I parked in front of my childhood home, the one with the dark green shutters and the half-dead rose bush my mom refused to dig up. The dining room light was on. I could see shadows moving behind the curtain. I stood on the porch for a moment before ringing the bell. Then I opened the door.
Lauren was already there, her arms crossed and her lips pursed. Mom sat
