smiled.
Not because it didn’t hurt.
Because underneath the table, the bank app was already open on my phone.
My name is Natalie Reed, and for ten years, I had been the quiet daughter.
The useful one.
The daughter who fixed overdrafts, paid emergency bills, covered Dad’s property taxes, and helped my sister Kayla “get back on her feet” so many times that eventually she began treating my paycheck like a family subscription.
But every birthday followed the same pattern.
Kayla received jewelry.
Vacations.
Speeches.
I got practical gifts—if they
