Tyler stood too fast. “Whoa—”
“Don’t,” I snapped.
The word cracked through the room so sharply even I startled myself.
Mom’s eyes widened. “Amelia—”
“Don’t call me Amelia right now.”
Silence.
I set the Rolex carefully on the counter.
Richard recovered first, slipping into that smooth corporate voice he used whenever he wanted to sound reasonable.
“Mia, let’s not overreact.”
I actually laughed.
Overreact.
My dead father’s watch had been stolen and pawned like junk jewelry.
Tyler shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket. “I was gonna get it back.”
“Oh, really?” I asked. “With what money?”
His jaw tightened.
“It was temporary,” he muttered. “I needed capital.”
“For your startup?” I said.
Nobody answered.
That told me enough.
I looked at my mother. “You knew?”
Tears instantly filled her eyes, but I’d seen this performance before. My mother cried whenever accountability got too close.
“We were going to replace it,” she whispered.
Replace it.
Like my father’s last gift to me was a toaster from Target.
“You stole from me,” I said quietly.
“No,” Richard cut in quickly. “Now hold on—”
“You broke into my desk at work.”
Tyler avoided my eyes.
My chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe.
“You knew what that watch meant to me.”
Mom started crying harder. “Tyler was desperate—”
“And I’m your daughter.”
That shut her up.
The room suddenly felt too small. Too hot. Years of resentment pressed against my ribs all at once.
After Dad died, Mom spent less than a year grieving before Richard appeared with his polished shoes and financial advice. He talked constantly about “moving forward,” which somehow always meant erasing pieces of my father.
Dad’s recliner disappeared first.
Then his tools.
Then the framed photos from the hallway.
And every time I protested, Mom accused me of “living in the past.”
But they weren’t memories to me.
They were proof Dad existed.
Proof someone in that house had once loved me unconditionally.
“What did you get for it?” I asked Tyler.
He swallowed. “Eight grand.”
