Page 159 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
“What? No.”
“Sorry.” She lowers her phone. “It just looked like it’d make good content. It would put Jasper in his place.”
I turn back to the drawer. “My life isn’t content. Why don’t you use your phone to create art instead of trying to chase trends and hope you make a name for yourself?”
“Some of us aren’t brave enough to hope we have talent.”
I pause as my parent’s supportive voices circle in my mind. “At least that’s something my parents taught me. I’m going to stand on my own two feet. I’m going to be myself.”
Madison gestures at the file spread out on the table. “And you hope to use this as leverage?”
“I need to understand my past so I can move into my future.”
I move back to the cabinet and keep searching. The next folder is unlabeled, just a blank white tab, which is exactly what makes my fingers stop on it. I pull it out, and inside is a collection of handwritten letters.
I unfold the first one, and it’s dated almost fifteen years ago.
Miranda,
I have watched you make the same mistakes for the last time. What you call ambition, I call recklessness, and I will no longer fund it. The music industry is not a retirement plan, and I am not a bank. Your sister has chosen a steady life, and I had hoped you might find the same path. Instead, I find myself writing this letter for the third time in as many years.
You are cut off, Miranda. Not out of cruelty, but because I can no longer watch you throw money into a fire and call it a career. I hope one day you prove me wrong. Until then, my decision stands.
My hands go still. “It’s written by my grandfather.”
“What does…” Madison doesn’t finish the question. Instead, she steps back, giving me more space.
I read the letter again from the beginning, slower this time, and each sentence sits heavier than the last. He’d written it three times. Three rounds of watching Miranda spend money that wasn’t hers to spend.
I fold it carefully and set it on the desk.
The second letter is written on stationery I recognize. Small white cards with a faint blue border. Mom kept a box of them in the drawer beside the kitchen phone. She used them for thank-you notes after catering events.
My throat closes over, and I unfold it.
Miranda,
I’m writing this because I can’t seem to say it out loud without us both ending up in tears, and we’ve done enough of that.
Dad left me money in the will. I know that wasn’t fair. I know you expected more than what you received, and I understand why you’re angry. But what he gave me, he gave to me for a reason. Giving it to you would go against his final wishes. I can’t do that. I’m not sure I could live with myself.
I’m sorry. I truly am. But I can’t keep being the one who fills the gap between what you have and what you need.
The handwriting is so familiar it makes my ribs ache. I’ve seen that slant a thousand times. On grocery lists stuck to the fridge, on birthday cards, and on sticky notes packed into my school lunches.
There’s a third letter on the same stationery. I take a deep breath and unfold it.
Miranda,
Fine, you win. I’m giving you the money. You already know how hard it is for me to say no to you. You’ve pushed me so much, so here it is.
But this time, I need you to hear me.
I can’t keep doing this. Every time we talk, it costs me something. And I’m not talking money. It’s a piece of me that I don’t get back. I can’t keep doing this with you because my daughter is already four. She’ll grow up in the blink of an eye, and she needs to be my sole focus. I can’t be present for her when half of me is always worrying about you.
You take risks I don’t understand. I used to admire that, but I don’t anymore. I think you’ve taken too much time mistaking recklessness for courage. I don’t have the energy to make you see the difference.
This is the last time, Miranda. I mean that, not as a threat but as a fact. I am a mother, and I’m putting my family first.
