Chapter 4

I walked toward her slowly, not wanting to spook her. My mind was a storm of emotions, but I forced my face to stay calm.

"My trip was done," I said softly. "I wanted to surprise you."

I reached her and gently took her arm. It felt as thin as a bird's wing. Her skin was cold, even in the mild afternoon air. I saw her hands up close now, the knuckles swollen, the nails dirty. She flinched, still trying to hide the sandwich.

"Are you hungry, Mom?" I asked, my voice thick.

"No, no. I was just... getting some air," she mumbled, avoiding my eyes. Her confusion was palpable. She knew something was wrong, knew her situation was shameful, but the threads of why and how seemed to have unraveled in her mind.

I guided her toward the house. "Let's go inside. I brought you something."

Inside, the house felt cold and sterile, lacking my mother's usual warmth. There were no fresh flowers, no stacks of art books on the coffee table. I led her to the living room sofa and had her sit down. I pulled a soft, cashmere shawl from my carry-on bag, a vibrant blue the color of her eyes.

"I saw this and thought of you," I said, draping it over her frail shoulders.

She touched the soft fabric, a flicker of her old self returning to her eyes. "It's beautiful, Chloe," she whispered. It was a small moment of connection, a brief return to normalcy.

Just then, Brenda walked into the room. She was wearing expensive-looking yoga pants and a tight-fitting top, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She looked more like the lady of the house than a housekeeper. She stopped short when she saw me.

"Chloe! What a surprise. Mark didn't say you were coming." Her smile was wide but didn't reach her eyes.

Then her gaze fell on the new shawl draped over my mother's shoulders. Her eyes lit up with a greedy, possessive gleam.

"Oh, how lovely!" she cooed, walking over. "Eleanor, dear, you're always so warm. You won't need that heavy thing. Let me hold on to it for you."

She reached out to take the shawl off my mother's shoulders.

I moved so fast it surprised even me. I stepped between them, blocking Brenda's path. My hand shot out and intercepted her wrist.

"Don't touch her," I said, my voice quiet but full of steel.

Brenda's eyes widened in shock. She tried to pull her hand away, but I held firm.

"It's a gift. For my mother," I said, enunciating each word. "Not for you."

The friendly mask fell from Brenda's face, replaced by a sneer. "Well, pardon me. I was just trying to help."

"I don't need your help."

At that moment, Mark came bustling in from the kitchen, a phony smile plastered on his face. "What's all the commotion? Chloe! You're here! Why didn't you tell us?"

He saw the scene-me holding Brenda's wrist, my mother looking frightened on the sofa, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. His smile faltered.

"Chloe, what are you doing?" he said, his tone shifting to one of paternalistic disapproval. "Let go of Brenda. You're making a scene."

He moved to stand beside Brenda, putting a protective arm around her shoulder. It was a gesture of solidarity, a clear drawing of battle lines.

"She was trying to take my mother's gift," I said, finally releasing Brenda's wrist.

"Don't be so dramatic," Mark scoffed. "Brenda is part of the family. She helps your mother with everything. You should be grateful. You show up out of the blue after six months and start causing trouble."

He was trying to paint me as the aggressor, the ungrateful daughter disrupting their peaceful home. The audacity was breathtaking.