Chapter 2 - The Default Notice
The morning sun hit the glass of my home office window as I sipped black coffee, watching the little blue dot of my flight tracker approach Chicago. I was back home in Cincinnati, and the fallout was landing precisely where it belonged.
My phone screen lit up with a missed call from my mother’s landline, followed immediately by a frantic text: “Diane, why did the mortgage payment bounce? The bank says our account is flagged for review! Fix this immediately, the escrow officer is calling.”
Ten minutes later, Vance burst into the family chat with a string of all-caps messages: “What did you do? My card just got declined at the rental car agency for the Chicago showcase! I’m stranded at the terminal and my professional reputation is on the line!”
I didn’t answer either of them. I simply walked upstairs to Leo’s bedroom. He was sitting on his bed, squinting slightly as he listened to an audiobook, his thick plastic glasses resting on the nightstand. His left eye had developed that slight, heartbreaking drift when he was tired—the physical manifestation of a cornea thinning past the point of structural integrity.
"Hey, buddy," I said softly, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "How are your eyes feeling today?"
"A little blurry, Mom," Leo said, offering a brave, crooked smile. "Is the doctor still going to fix them on Thursday?"
"Yes, sweetie," I said, my throat tightening as I stroked his hair. "Nothing is going to stop it. Absolutely nothing."
My phone buzzed on my knee. It wasn’t my mother or Vance this time. It was an email notification from the family trust attorney, Mr. Harrison, whom my mother had undoubtedly run to in a panic.
“Diane,” the email read, “ your mother and brother are currently in my office. They claim you have abruptly cut off household support and are acting erratically. They are threatening legal action regarding the familial obligations established when your father passed. Can you come in for a consultation this afternoon?”
I stared at the screen, a cold realization washing over me. They weren’t sorry. They weren’t confused. They genuinely believed that my income was their legal entitlement, and that trading a child’s eyesight for a stand-up comedy workshop was a reasonable budget reallocation.
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I typed a reply to Mr. Harrison: “I’ll be there at 2:00 PM. And bring the original ledger of my financial contributions for the last thirteen years. We’re going to do a full audit.”
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