I canceled them one by one.
It took longer than I expected. Not because it was hard—because the portal kept asking me if I was sure.
Yes, I was sure.
Then I canceled the standing order to my parents, currently $245 a month. The kind of small help they acted like they didn’t need.
When I was done, I closed the laptop and sat there.
Derek reached across the table and took my hand.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But I’m steady.”
The next morning passed quietly. Too quietly.
By afternoon, my phone rang.
Ila.
I stared at her name for a second, then answered. “What did you do?”
Ila’s voice was sharp, breathless. In the background, I could hear my mom—loud, the way she gets when she’s trying to control something with volume.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, because I needed her to say it.
“All the donors canceled,” Ila snapped. “All of them, at once.”
My mom’s voice cut in, muffled but clear enough. “This isn’t normal. Someone did something.”
Ila sounded frantic now. “Twenty-six cancellations. In an hour, they’re gone. Paige, did you smear us? What did you do?”
I leaned back in my chair. The word smear landed with a familiar taste—my mom’s favorite strategy. If something goes wrong, it’s because someone attacked her.
“No,” I said. “I didn’t smear you.”
“Then why did they all stop?” Ila demanded. “We need that money. We—Dad, therapy, care. We—”
My stomach tightened. I kept my voice calm.
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