12. Shayla
12
SHAYLA
N o.
The word reverberated in my head like a mallet striking a gong. I’d asked my father for help, and he’d turned me down. Now I was out of options. Short of selling pictures of my feet online, there was nothing I could do to help my mother pay for her treatments. The chemo and radiation she needed would cost her thousands. And that was just what insurance didn’t cover. Her meds alone would cost more than what I could make hosting several cooking classes per week. And if I pushed myself like that again, combined with the stress of caring for her, I could have another flare up. I could barely function the first time, back when we had no idea it was Hashimoto's causing the extreme fatigue, unexplained weight gain, and brain fog. I never wanted to go through that again, especially not now that I had my dream job and my health under control.
There was a simple solution to this problem, but my father refused to entertain the idea. The small trust fund my grandfather set up before he passed was more than enough to get us through. But the man was old school and apparently believed a single woman in her twenties couldn’t possibly be capable of handling large sums of money. My father, as the executor, had the power to release the funds early, but he was adamantly against it. It didn’t matter what I said, he wouldn’t change his mind.
Anger surged through me at the thought of his refusal. It would take so little effort for him to sign a few papers and let me have the money. It wasn’t like I was going to go out and blow it all on something meaningless. This was my mother’s health and life at stake. She was barely keeping her head above water as it was. She would drown under the weight of any more debt.
The thought made me sick. Now that I was making more than minimum wage, I thought we’d be in a much better position financially, and I could eventually get a place of my own. But once the chemo started, Mom would be too sick to work, and I wasn’t sure how long they’d hold her position while she was on leave. The one thing that could alleviate all this stress and worry was just out of reach because my father was a selfish, controlling prick.
I’d come to him in good faith, hoping to appeal to what little humanity he had hidden deep beneath the lapels of his designer suit. Instead of showing the bare minimum of compassion, he accused my mom of manipulating me into using my trust fund for her benefit, as though it had been her idea. It hadn’t. She didn’t even know I’d planned to ask him. Not once did she mention mine or my sister’s trusts as a means to pay for her treatment. She was fully prepared to work until she couldn’t physically do it anymore and take out that second mortgage if she had to. I didn’t need the hundred grand, or however much was sitting in that account after accruing interest for years, but I did need my mom. I needed her more than anything.
I fought the scream bubbling in my throat and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes to stave off the tears, remembering too late that I was wearing mascara. This conversation with my father hadn’t gone as I'd expected. I wasn’t sure why I thought he’d do the right thing, if not for me then for my little sister. He and I weren’t exactly close—he didn’t like that I wouldn’t let him control my life and my decisions—but Makenna was the apple of his eye.
At least she had been until his new wife and stepson came into the picture. Now everything was “Brody this and Brody that.” Makenna was no longer his top priority. She’d been forced to give up her dream of attending the technical institute in Massachusetts with the top rated robotics program she’d had her eye on for years in favor of following Brody to college. My father had claimed it was so she’d still be close to home, and they would only have to visit one campus when they wanted to see the kids, but the truth was, it was just another way to retain control over us, and Makenna wasn’t bold enough to defy him. Not like I was.
It really burned his ass when I refused to go to law school like he wanted, instead choosing a career in dietetics. He refused to pay for my schooling, so I took out loans and worked my ass off to pay for it myself.
Guess I was lucky it benefited him to get me this job. To his peers, he looked like the doting father who wanted to help his daughter launch her career. Little did they know, it was just another way for him to attempt to control me. It wasn’t like he supported my career choice. He often called it a waste of time and belittled my profession right to my face.
That only fueled me to work harder, to prove that what I did mattered. I would be the best damn dietician this league had ever seen. And I would do it while taking care of my family, something he had failed to do. Spite was a powerful motivator, and I had it spades.