Chapter 5 - Camille’s Entitlement
By Tuesday afternoon, the shockwaves had reached my older sister, Camille.
If my parents were the architects of our family’s toxic hierarchy, Camille was its most enthusiastic enforcer. As the eldest, she had spent her entire life basking in the reflected glory of being the "successful, perfect daughter"—married to a wealthy corporate consultant, living in a gated subdivision, and raising children who apparently met every arbitrary standard my parents held dear.
I was at the kitchen counter making after-school snacks for Sophie and Noah when my doorbell rang again.
This time, through the frosted glass, I saw the unmistakable silhouette of Camille’s designer handbag and her oversized sunglasses, even though the sun was already dipping below the horizon.
I opened the door before she could hammer on the wood a second time.
Camille didn’t wait for an invitation. She pushed past me into the entryway, her trench coat rustling with indignant energy.
"Have you completely lost your mind?" she demanded, spinning around to face me as I closed the door. "Mom has been crying for two days straight, Dad’s blood pressure is through the roof, and the entire extended family is buzzing like a kicked hornet's nest. What is wrong with you?"
Sophie and Noah, who had been sitting at the kitchen island doing homework, froze. Sophie instinctively pulled her workbook closer to her chest.
I pointed toward the stairs. "Go up to your rooms for ten minutes, guys. I'll call you down soon."
"Who's that, Mom?" Noah asked quietly.
"Just an uninvited guest," I said, keeping my eyes locked on my sister. "Go on up."
Once the kids’ footsteps faded up the staircase, I turned back to Camille. My posture was rigid, my hands resting casually on my hips.
"You have a lot of nerve walking into my house after what you did on Thanksgiving," I said, my voice dangerously low.
Camille scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Oh, please. Are we still talking about the gift basket? That was between Mom and the kids. You threw a temper tantrum like a toddler because your children didn't get a toy. And now you're sabotaging Mom and Dad's business over bruised egos?"
"My children were publicly humiliated," I said, stepping closer to her until she was forced to look up into my eyes. "And you sat there, leaned back in your chair, and laughed. You gleefully poured salt into an open wound just to make yourself feel superior."
"It was a joke!" Camille shrieked, her composure cracking for a fraction of a second. "God, you've always been so painfully dramatic, Mara. Ever since we were kids, you couldn't take a joke. Mom and Dad wanted to teach them a lesson about earning things—"
"A lesson about earning things?" I cut her off, my voice rising sharply. "What did my seven-year-old son need to 'earn'? What did my nine-year-old daughter do to deserve being ostracized at a family dinner while your kids walked away with wrapped boxes?"
Camille crossed her arms defensively, her face tightening into an ugly sneer. "Well, if you must know, Mom and Dad were making a point about contributions. You act like you're some kind of martyr with your little bookkeeping chores, but Mom and Dad built that business from the ground up before you even knew how to balance a checkbook. You think you're irreplaceable? You think you own them?"
"I don't own them," I said, my voice clearing into absolute crystal. "And I certainly don't work for them anymore. Which is precisely why you're standing in my hallway right now, panicking."
Camille blinked, her smug expression faltering.
"Don't lie to me," I continued, stepping right into her personal space. "Mom didn't send you here because she misses me. She sent you here because Eric’s investments are tied up in Dad’s commercial real estate ventures, and if Whitmore Event Rentals goes under due to lapsed state licensing and frozen accounts, your little gated-community lifestyle takes a very expensive hit."
The color drained entirely from Camille’s face. For the first time all afternoon, she had nothing to say. Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
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"You don't care about Mom's tears," I whispered, leaning in close. "You care that the gravy train is drying up. Now get out of my house."
Camille stared at me as if she were looking at a stranger—someone she had known her entire life, only to realize she never knew at all. Without another word, she turned on her heel, wrenched the front door open, and slammed it behind her so hard the brass knocker rattled on its hinges.
