“What? You’ve been talking about Sophie’s party for months.”
“I’m not invited.”
The air left the car. “Why aren’t you invited?”
She turned to me, and in the dashboard lights, I saw the first crack in the dam. “Because Grandma told everyone I’m a thief.”
Cliffhanger:
I nearly swerved off the road. I pulled the car into the nearest parking lot, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “What did you just say?” I demanded. Maya looked at me, tears finally spilling over, hot and fast. “Grandma told the coach. She told the school. She told the other moms. She said I stole Belle’s shoes. Mom, everyone knows. My life is over.”
We sat in the idling car for an hour while the story poured out of her, a chaotic flood of injustice.
It revolved, as things in our family often did, around Belle. My sister Vanessa’s daughter. The family’s crowned princess. The golden child who could do no wrong.
“Belle couldn’t find her shoes,” Maya choked out, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “Her competition tap shoes. She needed them for the solo. She started freaking out, screaming that someone took them. And then… she looked at me. She said I took them because I was jealous. Because I got a better placement in the showcase.”
“I didn’t touch them, Mom,” she sobbed. “I swear. I didn’t even go in her room.”
“I believe you,” I said instantly.
“Grandma and Grandpa came into the guest room that night,” she continued, her voice trembling. “They stood over the bed. They said I stole them to sabotage Belle. They said… they said I was envious and spiteful.”
My grip on the steering wheel was so tight my hands hurt. “Go on.”
“They grounded me. And then… the next day, they went to my school. They told the principal. They told the dance coach. They said they had to ‘get ahead of the behavior.’ They told everyone I was a thief.”
“And the shoes?” I asked, my voice deadly calm. “Did they ever find them?”
Maya nodded, a jagged motion. “Later that night. Grandma said they found them at their house. In the hallway by the front door. They said I must have hidden them there to sneak them out.”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “They found the shoes at their house? But they accused you of stealing them?”
“They said the location proved I took them. They said if I hadn’t taken them, they would have been in Belle’s bag. But because they were in the hall, I must have moved them.”
The logic was dizzying, circular, and malicious. It was the logic of a witch hunt.
We went home. I made dinner because mothers are ridiculous creatures who will sauté vegetables while their entire world is collapsing. Maya ate nothing. She sat there, folded in on herself, a ghost in her own kitchen.
“Sophie won’t talk to me,” she whispered. “The group chat… they kicked me out. They called me a ‘klepto.’ If I did it to Belle, they think I’ll do it to anyone.”
I set down the dish towel. I picked up my phone.
I dialed my mother. She answered on the second ring, cheerful, oblivious.
“Hi, Sarah! settled in?”
“What did you do?” I asked. No greeting. No warmth.
There was a pause. A shift in the atmosphere on the other end of the line. “Excuse me?”
“You told people my daughter is a thief. You went to her school. You destroyed her reputation over a pair of shoes.”
