My Cousin Faked Illness to Steal My Boyfriend, He Turned the Tables Chapter 12

My Cousin Faked Illness to Steal My Boyfriend, He Turned the Tables Chapter 12

Mom walked inside.

She placed an account book onto the table. “Everything I’ve given you over the years is more than enough to pay for your so-called suffering.”

Aunt Nova rushed in behind her, her face completely pale. “Charlotte, please don’t do this.”

Mom didn’t even look at her. “From now on, we go our separate ways.”

This time, Grandma wasn’t there to tell anyone to let it slide.

Iris was dragged away by Aunt Nova, screaming insults until she was out the door.

Julian tried to slip away unnoticed, but Savannah called out to him. “Delete your post. And write your own

retraction.”

Julian nodded frantically.

Greyson pointed at the smashed chair. “Pay for that too.”

Julian froze. “I wasn’t the one who smashed it.”

“You brought her here,” Greyson said. He glanced toward the door where Iris had just exited. “If you don’t

pay up, I’m turning over the evidence showing you took cash to lie for her.”

Grit-toothed, Julian transferred the money.

The customers in the diner laughed again.

For the first time in years, Savannah smiled in front of us.

It was a brief smile, but it felt like winter sunlight streaming through a window.

After closing that night, Greyson made pasta for the four of us-me, Savannah, Mom, and himself.

Dad didn’t show up. He said he was too ashamed.

Mom sat at a small table, slowly finishing her meal.

She looked at Savannah. “Savannah, I’m so sorry.”

Savannah held her fork, waiting a long moment before answering.

“I hear you,” she finally said. “As for forgiveness, we’ll see.”

Mom nodded, her tears splashing into her plate.

Greyson slid a tissue toward her without saying a single word of reconciliation.

I suddenly felt like this was enough.

Some cracks don’t need to be sealed right away. Just stop them from bleeding first.

A month later, I presented my new piece at the showcase.

The piece was titled The Return.

It was a deep emerald gown, featuring two delicate dogwood blossoms detailed on the sleeve.

One blossom was perfectly complete; the other was missing à petal.

Ms. Frost had asked me why I didn’t finish it.

“The broken parts can be a pattern of their own,” I told her.

On the day of the exhibition, Savannah sat in the front row.

Greyson sat right next to her, holding a bouquet of fresh flowers.

Mom and Dad sat a few rows back.

They didn’t call out or interrupt.

When the host introduced me, they called me the youngest restoration artist to join the studio in recent

years.

The audience erupted into applause.

I caught sight of Iris standing near the back entrance of the venue.

She didn’t come in.

She had lost a significant amount of weight, and neither Aunt Nova nor Grandma was by her side.

She looked at me on the stage, her gaze conflicted.

I didn’t look away.

“Miss Matthews,” the host asked over the microphone, “is there anything you’d like to share about this piece?”

I took the microphone. “This piece isn’t meant to prove anything to anyone. It’s just a reminder to myself that from now on, I’ll hold onto what belongs to me.”

The applause grew deafening.

Iris turned and walked away.

This time, no one chased after her to comfort her.

After the showcase ended, Greyson handed me the flowers. “Would you do me the honor of grabbing dinner tonight?”

I accepted the bouquet. “Depends on your performance.”

He nodded seriously. “I’ll add an extra egg.”

Savannah rolled her eyes from the side. “That’s it?”

“And a side of glazed ribs,” Greyson added.

Mom stood a short distance away, looking like she wanted to smile but didn’t quite dare to.

Watching them, I suddenly realized that a home shouldn’t belong to whoever cries the loudest.

A home belongs to the people who actually know how to love.

Later on, Iris sent me a text message.

She mentioned that she and Aunt Nova had moved to another city, and Grandma had been taken in by our

uncle.

She wrote that she had found a job as a retail clerk, standing on her feet for eight hours a day, and finally

realized how hard it was to make a living.

At the very end, she asked if I could ever forgive her.

I never replied.

Some apologies come far too late to be traded for a hug.

I showed the message to Savannah.

“It’s better not to answer,” Savannah said.

Greyson walked out of the kitchen balancing plates of food. “Dinner’s ready. Don’t lose sleep over people

who don’t deserve it.”

I smiled and put my phone face down.

There were four place settings at the table.

Savannah came over occasionally.

Mom would visit too, bringing a bag of fresh fruit and sitting by the door to help prep ingredients.

Dad came less often, spending his visits quietly fixing small things around the diner.

We didn’t instantly become a perfect, close-knit family.

But no one ever forced me to give in again.

No one used my compliance to feed someone else’s greed.