Chapter 5: I Don't Agree

“I don’t agree.”

My mother’s fingers froze over her phone.

“What did you say?”

“The second bedroom is my study. Sloane will not be staying in it.”

She stared at me for a few seconds, her expression turning to ice.

“Mara, we have already compromised enough for your wedding. Now all we’re asking is for you to leave one room for family, and you still want to argue?”

I almost laughed.

I was the one who had lost the venue, the savings, and the wedding plans.

And somehow, in her telling, they were the ones making sacrifices.

“What if my wedding matters more than Sloane’s launch event?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” My mother waved her hand impatiently. “A wedding can happen anytime. Sloane’s organization will affect hundreds of homeless children. How can you even compare the two?”

Footsteps sounded at the door.

My father had just come home. After hearing a few clipped complaints from my mother, he didn’t even take off his coat before turning to me.

“What exactly have you been doing lately?”

“I’m deciding how to use my own room.”

“Everything you have came from this family,” my father said coldly. “If you don’t want to think about the bigger picture, then don’t call yourself an Ellis.”

My mother frowned and called his name, as though his words had gone too far.

But I simply nodded.

“All right.”

They all froze.

My mother quickly let out a disbelieving laugh.

“You’re just sulking. We’ll talk again when you’ve calmed down.”

What she didn’t know was that I wasn’t sulking.

That night, using project overtime as an excuse, I moved into the short-term apartment I had rented in advance.

It held only a bed, a set of dishes, and two suitcases that were already packed.

Of the six weeks on my countdown, only four days remained.

The next afternoon, while no one was home, I went back to collect the last of my personal belongings.

My documents, my laptop, a few professional books, and the patchwork quilt my grandmother had left for me.

But the top shelf of the storage cabinet was empty.

I dragged out every box from the cabinet, then searched the closet and the attic. The blue-and-white patchwork quilt was gone, dust cover and all.

My grandmother had spent two years sewing it.

The fabric came from dresses she had worn when she was young, old shirts that had belonged to my grandfather, and a blue coat I had worn as a child.

By the time she gave it to me, she had been too sick to lift her arms.

“Mara,” she’d whispered, “this is my blessing for the family you’ll have one day.”

She was the only person in this family who ever asked what I liked.

When I was being overlooked, she never praised me for being sensible. She only told me that independence did not mean letting people take from you.

I immediately called my mother.

“Where is Grandma’s patchwork quilt?”

“How would I know?” Her voice was evasive. “Maybe you put it somewhere and forgot.”

“The storage cabinet is empty.”

“Then look again. Don’t come asking me about every little thing.”

The moment the call ended, a live notification from Instagram popped up on my screen.

Sloane was streaming her “Charity Creativity Night.”

I clicked on it.

At the center of the display table, spread out beneath the lights, was the blue-and-white patchwork quilt.

Hearts flooded the comments.

Smiling, Sloane said, “Tonight, we’re giving a beloved family heirloom a new life.”

My hands started to shake.

I called my mother again.

“You took it.”

She was silent for two seconds before abandoning the pretense.

“Yes, I gave it to Sloane. You left it sitting there for years without using it. She happened to need something meaningful for the fundraiser.”

“That was Grandma’s wedding gift to me.”

“It’s just an old quilt.” My mother’s voice hardened. “Now it gets to shine for charity. That should be an honor. Don’t be so petty at a time like this.”

Tears streamed down my face before I even realized I was crying.

“Grandma said it was a blessing for my future family.”

“If she were still alive, she’d support Sloane helping those children, too.”

I grabbed my car keys and ran out.

My mother realized what I was doing almost immediately.

“Mara, where are you going?”

“To get my things back.”

“Mara, don’t you dare!” Her voice shot up, sharp and shrill. “There are foundation directors and media here tonight. If you ruin Sloane’s charity night, I will never forgive you!”

I hung up on her.

By the time I parked outside the venue, applause was already rising from inside.

I pushed open the ballroom doors.

Sloane stood under the lights, the patchwork quilt spread perfectly flat before her.

“We’re going to turn this old quilt, passed down through our family, into two hundred one-of-a-kind fundraising brooches.”

She smiled out at the audience.

“Each one will sell for five hundred dollars, and every cent will go toward helping vulnerable teens.”

Guests murmured their approval at her creativity and compassion.

Then, in the next instant, Sloane raised a pair of golden scissors.

To a fresh burst of applause, she made the first cut.