"You two always know how to make yourselves sound good."
"That general manager title is a joke. Every decision, big or small, still has to go through Dad. What kind of general manager is that?"
"You keep saying 'when we're dead, it'll all be yours.' What if I die before you? Who am I supposed to take it up with then?"
"What, am I supposed to wait underground for you to burn it all down to me?"
My mouth hung open. I couldn't believe those words had come out of her mouth.
My husband was shaking with rage, his finger pointed at her, but not a single word came out.
She glanced at the two of us. Maybe even she realized she'd gone too far, because she cleared her throat:
"Anyway, I need to head over to my mother-in-law's. She's had a cold the last couple days, and I should take care of her."
As she spoke, she packed up all the breakfast on the table:
"There's too much here for just the two of you. I'll bring it over and eat with my in-laws."
"Let me know when you've made up your minds, and I'll delete the video."
Then she left, breakfast in hand.
I looked down at my granddaughter in my arms, and my nose stung with the threat of tears.
Before she met Desmond, Summer had always been such a good girl.
Then she came back from studying abroad and met him. No car, no house, no savings, and yet she insisted he was the only one she'd marry.
Even if it meant squeezing into a cramped five-hundred-square-foot apartment with Desmond's parents, Summer was willing.
When we refused, she threw fits. She cried, she screamed, she even stopped eating.
We had no choice. We gave in.
There was no bride price. Afraid our daughter would suffer, we put up a million-dollar dowry ourselves, bought them a luxury condo downtown, and paid for the entire wedding out of our own pockets.
Summer said jobs were hard to find, so my husband stepped back and gave Desmond the general manager position at the company.
But neither of them ever showed a shred of gratitude. They even complained daily that we weren't as good to them as Desmond's parents were.
Eudora made her one batch of homemade ravioli, and Summer wept like she'd been shown the kindness of a lifetime.
Everything we did was just "expected."
Because our family had more money than theirs.
The more I thought about it, the less I could hold back. I turned my head away and cried.
My husband sighed and rested a hand on my shoulder:
"All these years, we spoiled her rotten."
"She doesn't understand what we've done for her. And Desmond, the way he's been running things at the company these past few years, he thinks I don't know."
"No talent, big temper. If I hadn't kept a tight grip on the reins, he would've driven the company into the ground years ago."
"He wants those shares because he knows Summer is our only daughter. He's trying to bleed us dry and take everything."
I watched the rims of my husband's eyes turn red, and my heart ached.
"Tonight, when Summer comes home, we sit her down and talk."
"We can't let her keep going on like this."
For the rest of the day, our phones didn't stop. Relatives, old friends, acquaintances, one after another, calls and messages flooding in.
Every single one had seen the video and wanted to know what was going on.
By then, the video had nearly a million likes.
I called Summer over and over, begging her to take the video down.
Her answer never changed: agree to transfer the shares, and the video disappears.
Then a loud crash came from the bedroom. I rushed in.
My husband was clutching his chest, sitting on the edge of the bed, gasping for air.
His phone lay on the floor where he'd thrown it.
I picked it up. The screen showed a single message from an unknown number.
"You sick old bastard, treating your own daughter like that. I hope you get hit by a car."
My blood ran cold. Before I could process it, seven or eight more messages poured in, every one of them cursing us.
We'd been doxxed.
"Call Summer. Tell her to come home right now. I need to set things straight with her once and for all."
