Chapter 2 - The Stolen Future
My father stood at the foot of the bed with his hands buried deep in his pockets, his posture stiff and defensive, the way it always was whenever he was about to deliver bad news that he intended to blame on someone else. Austin sat in the wooden desk chair near the window, spinning my office laptop around by its corner, his eyes fixed on the screen. My mother sat on the edge of the mattress, her fingers worrying the hem of her cardigan, wearing that familiar expression of exhausted martyrdom that had always made me feel guilty for merely existing.
"We need to talk about logistics, Christina," my father said, clearing his throat with a harsh, artificial sound. "You can't live alone in your suburb apartment right now. You can't cook, you can't drive, and you certainly can't work that high-flying tech job while you're drugged up on painkillers."
"I have a remote setup," I murmured, my voice thick and dry from medication. "And my company has short-term disability coverage. I can manage my apartment, Dad. It's on the first floor."
"Don't be difficult," my mother snapped, her face tightening instantly. "We are offering you our home. We are changing our lives to take care of you, wiping your brow, cooking your meals, carrying you back and forth to your doctor appointments. Do you have any idea how much work that is for people our age?"
"I didn't ask you to move me here," I said, feeling a cold knot twist in my stomach. "You insisted. You said it would be easier."
"And it is easier," Austin cut in, tapping the trackpad of my laptop with a sharp nail. "Except for one massive problem. Your finances. We were looking over your accounts to help you set up your automatic bill payments while you're out of commission, and we found something disturbing."
My heart skipped a beat. "What did you find?"
"You have a separate high-yield savings account," Austin said, looking up at me with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Forty-five thousand dollars sitting in an investment fund. You told us you were completely strapped after buying that sedan last year. You lied to us, Christina. You kept a private stash while we were struggling to make ends meet and keeping this household afloat."
"That's my surgery fund," I said, trying to sit up, a sharp spike of white-hot pain shooting down my fractured femur. "You know that. The doctor told me I need a reconstruction procedure in six months or I'll walk with a permanent limp. That money is for my hip, Austin."
"Your hip?" My father scoffed, stepping closer to the bed and towering over me. "You're alive, aren't you? You have two legs attached to your body. You should be thanking God you didn't die in that ditch. A limp is a small price to pay for a second chance at life. But this family? This family has real debts. Austin's truck payment is behind because of inflation. Teresa needs dental work. And the roof on this house is leaking in three places. That money belongs to the family that raised you, not to some vanity operation."
"It's not a vanity operation," I whispered, tears of absolute shock burning behind my eyelids. "It's so I can walk. Without pain. Without crutches."
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"You can walk with crutches just fine," my mother said coldly. "We talked about this as a family. We transferred the funds this morning using your master password from your password manager. It's already in your father's business account. It's being put to good use, Christina. Stop being so selfish."
I stared at them, realizing with terrifying clarity that they weren't asking for my permission. They had already taken it. The savings account I had spent three years building dollar by dollar, sacrificing weekends, social events, and peace of mind, had vanished into their hands while I lay drugged and helpless in my childhood bedroom.
