Bridget set the empty soup bowl down on the table. Corda wiped her wet hands vigorously on her faded apron and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa. The air in the room grew heavy.
Corda reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. It was the suicide note the original Bridget had left on the kitchen counter.
Bridget glanced at it. The paper was covered in pathetic, desperate handwriting, detailing her obsession with Kurtis and the agony of his rejection.
Corda's hands shook. She gripped the edges of the paper and ripped it in half. The sound of the tearing paper was loud in the quiet room.
Corda ground her teeth together. She cursed Kurtis, calling him a wolf in sheep's clothing who preyed on a naive girl.
Bridget remained completely silent. She watched the emotional outburst with detached calculation, assessing the social damage this situation posed.
Corda stood up. She began pacing the narrow space between the sofa and the TV. The floorboards groaned under her heavy, anxious steps.
Suddenly, Corda stopped. She spun around and glared at Bridget. She demanded that Bridget go to the volunteer camp immediately.
Corda's voice pitched higher, cracking with desperation. She ordered Bridget to get every single one of those humiliating love letters back.
She yelled that she wouldn't let the town treat her daughter like a pathetic joke.
The memory of writing those letters surfaced in Bridget's mind. The desperate hoping, the pathetic longing. A wave of physical nausea hit Bridget's stomach.
She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, forcing the bile down. Her financial risk-assessment models fired up.
Those letters were toxic assets. They were reputation landmines left out in the open. They had to be liquidated immediately.
Bridget opened her eyes. Her gaze was crystal clear. There was no shame, no hesitation. She looked straight at her frantic mother.
She crossed her hands in her lap. Her voice was perfectly level. "Okay."
The simple, immediate agreement shocked Corda. She had prepared herself for a screaming match, for Bridget to cry and refuse to face her humiliator.
Corda took two steps closer, her eyes narrowing. She suspected Bridget was just lying to shut her up.
Bridget stood up. Her legs wobbled slightly from the weakness, but she locked her knees and kept her spine perfectly straight.
She looked Corda dead in the eye. She stated clearly that she wasn't just going to get the letters back. She was going to sever the connection permanently.
Corda stared at her. She saw a ruthless, decisive edge in Bridget's eyes that had never been there before. Corda was too stunned to speak.
Bridget turned and walked to the coat rack. She pulled down a stiff, faded canvas jacket.
As she slid her arms into the sleeves, the muscles in her back screamed in protest. Bridget frowned, but her movements didn't slow down for a second.
She asked Corda for the exact location of the volunteer camp and the mayor's temporary office.
Corda mechanically rattled off the directions, her brain still struggling to process her daughter's total personality shift.
Bridget walked to the front door and wrapped her hand around the freezing brass doorknob.
Corda suddenly rushed forward. She grabbed Bridget's arm, a flash of genuine maternal fear in her eyes. She asked if Bridget was sure she could handle this alone.
Bridget turned her head. She gave her mother a confident, reassuring smile. She patted Corda's hand.
She pulled her arm free and pushed the door open. The bright afternoon sun stabbed at her eyes.
She squinted, letting her pupils adjust, then marched down the wooden steps and onto the dirt road.
A cold autumn wind whipped past her, kicking up dead leaves. Bridget pulled the canvas coat tighter around her chest and kept her pace steady.
In her mind, those letters were no longer symbols of teenage heartbreak. They were outstanding debts, and she was the debt collector.
