“Oh my God, six hundred dollars a month? That’s brutal.”
“Look at her designer clothes and she treats her own daughter like garbage.”
“You really can’t judge a book by its cover, huh?”
I watched my daughter break down sobbing, and it felt like someone was carving out my heart with a dull knife.
Every explanation I could possibly give felt pathetic and hollow in that moment.
With everyone staring, I used every ounce of strength I had left and dropped to my knees in front of her.
“Naomi… I’m so sorry… This is all my fault.”
“Please. Just give me a chance to explain.”
The world went silent.
Everyone froze.
Even Naomi stood there in shock, tears still streaming down her face, like she couldn’t process what she was seeing.
Finally, one of her friends snapped out of it and rushed over to help me up, fumbling awkwardly.
Naomi bit her lip. A long, awful silence stretched between us.
Then, she forced out a single word through gritted teeth:
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“Fine.”
We sat across from each other in a coffee shop near campus.
I didn’t immediately launch into defensive explanations. Instead, I pulled out the evidence
I’d been carrying with me.
I slid a thick stack of bank transfer records across the table.
Every single one showed money moving from MY paycheck into Crane’s account–the one supposedly designated for “household expenses.”
Each transaction was clearly labeled “Daughter’s living expenses.”
Amounts ranging from three to five thousand dollars. Every month.
“What is this…” Naomi stared at the bank statements, confusion flooding her eyes.
Then I pulled out the second piece of evidence.
The photos the PI had taken.
Crane with Miranda. Crane with that kid Tyler.
Their perfect little family playing happy together.
Finally, I unbuttoned the top of my shirt, exposing the vicious bruises that still hadn’t fully faded.
“Naomi, your father told you I threw a tantrum and fell down.”
“The truth is, he locked me in a storage closet for over twenty–four hours without food or water. He did this to me.”
Naomi’s face went sheet–white.
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Her hands started trembling as she picked up the photos one by one, studying them like she could burn holes through the paper.
“So… so everything he said was a lie?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“He said you thought I was spending too much, so you’d only give me a thousand a month. Then he cut it to six hundred.”
“He said you’d come home from work in a bad mood and take it out on me. That you were upset I got into school in New York.”
“He said you… hated me.”
I shook my head, tears sliding silently down my face.
“I never did. Not once. Naomi, you’re my pride and joy.”
I told her about the phone call I’d made right before passing out from fever–I’d actually called her friend Chloe.
So I never believed a word Crane said about her not caring.
Naomi’s eyes went wide. She immediately pulled out her phone and called Chloe.
On the other end, Chloe recounted what had actually happened that day–a completely different story from Crane’s version.
“Your dad answered and said your mom was drunk and acting crazy, told us to ignore it. I knew something felt wrong, but when I called back nobody picked up…”
The truth came crashing down.
Every misunderstanding, every moment of resentment–it all collapsed under the weight of cold, hard facts.
Naomi covered her face with her hands and let out a strangled, agonized sob.
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I couldn’t hold back anymore either. I pulled her into my arms, and we sat there in that
coffee shop corner crying our hearts out.
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