"Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan, you two sure have it made. You work your daughter like a mule while you sit inside painting pictures and reading books. Must be nice. The rest of us aren't nearly so lucky."
That evening, the moment I got off work, my mother dragged me into the house and slapped me hard across the face.
"You just love playing the saint, don't you? Help your parents with a few chores and suddenly the whole village's singing your praises and pointing fingers at us behind our backs!"
"Fine! From now on, every cent we spend, we'll write you an IOU. When we earn the money, we'll pay back every last penny!"
I went into my room, a converted storage shed, and brought out a cookie tin.
I opened it. Inside was a stack of IOUs nearly two inches thick.
Dates, signatures, red thumbprints.
Every single one accounted for.
My parents froze in place, staring at that stack, their lips pressed into thin lines.
Everyone else fell dead silent, exchanging uneasy glances.
I picked up the one on top and read it aloud, slowly. "I, Jack Sullivan, hereby owe Letitia Sullivan $11.80 for the purchase of paintbrushes. This note serves as proof."
"Starting from March 1970. Eleven years' worth."
"Jack Sullivan and Olivia Lawrence borrowed a total of $825.35 from me."
"Of that, $169.43 went to medicine when they were sick. $483.55 went to painting supplies and books. And $172.37 covered everyday expenses."
"Oh, and one more thing. When we moved back to the city, you borrowed another fifty dollars from me. Bought Dad a formal suit. You and Desiree each got yourselves a new blouse. You said you'd write me an IOU when we got home."
With every item I read, another shade of color drained from my parents' faces.
Boris and Mila Gilbert, along with Egbert, had started out looking shocked and confused. But as they followed my words and their eyes landed on the formal suit and the blouses the three of them were wearing, that confusion curdled into disbelief and visible discomfort.
My mother opened her mouth, trying to cut me off, but she was so furious no sound came out.
My father swung his hand and slapped me across the face. Every trace of his mild-mannered, scholarly composure was gone. He jabbed a finger at my nose, his voice shrill and cracking.
"Letitia Sullivan! Your parents gave you life and raised you, and you're sitting here nickel-and-diming us over every last cent? You ungrateful little wretch!"
They hadn't held back.
Both my cheeks were split and bleeding.
Thirteen years ago, the first time they'd hit me, I hadn't been able to take it. I'd passed out for a full day and night.
Things were different now. I'd grown up.
Not only could I take both slaps, I had the nerve to shatter the chains and set myself free.
I pressed my tongue against the torn flesh inside my cheek, then let out a quiet laugh.
"Mom, Dad. That first time we drew lots with the fried eggs... was I really the only one who got one?"
"And last night, didn't Desiree eat two?"
