$400 to Dr. Henderson, dermatology. That was for my mother, Deardra. She had convinced herself that her age spots were a medical emergency. $150 to Uber. That was for my sister, Piper. She didn’t drive because she claimed it gave her anxiety, so I paid for her to be chauffeured around Santa Fe like royalty. $200 for groceries at Whole Foods. I knew for a fact that my parents, Gerald and Deardra, didn’t shop at Whole Foods for essentials. That charge was likely imported cheese and organic wine.I rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the headache that had been living behind my eyes for a decade.
My phone buzzed on the mahogany desk, vibrating against the hard surface like an angry hornet. It was a text from my dad, Gerald: “Don’t forget the wine for Thursday. Piper likes that French one, Châteauneuf-du-Pape. It’s about $80 a bottle. Get three.”
I stared at the screen. Eighty dollars a bottle. Two hundred and forty total. That was three hours of my billable time. I didn’t even drink red wine; it gave me migraines. But that didn’t matter. In the ecosystem of my family, my preferences were irrelevant. My function was to provide.
The door to my office creaked open. It was Grant, my boyfriend of three years. He was holding two cardboard cups of coffee, his hair messy from sleep, his eyes filled with a concern that made my chest ache. He had driven down to the office to sit with me while I pulled this all-nighter.
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