Chapter 1: The Twenty-Dollar Bill
"She doesn't deserve another twenty dollars!""
My stepmother snatched the bill from my hand so quickly that her wedding ring scratched my wrist. I was nine years old, standing beside the kitchen table with my school supply list folded in my pocket, when she looked at me as if I'd committed a crime by accepting money from my own father.
My dad stopped halfway through pouring his coffee.
And for the first time in four years, I saw him look at his wife like he didn't recognize her.
"Derek, don't start," Simone said, clutching the twenty-dollar bill against her chest.
"You keep rewarding this child for absolutely nothing.""
I stared at the floor.
I had learned that looking at Simone's face when she was angry only made things worse.
But that morning, I had something in my pocket that I had never shown anyone.
A little notebook.
Inside it were dates, amounts, and one question I had been too afraid to ask aloud.
*Where was all my money going?*
My name is Chloe. When I was five, my mother died in a hospital room that smelled like disinfectant and the vanilla lotion she used to rub into my hands before bedtime.
I didn't understand death at first.
I thought Mommy had gone somewhere far away, somewhere beyond the hospital windows, and that if I behaved well enough, she might come back.
For months, I kept a pink hairbrush beside my pillow because it still smelled faintly like her shampoo.
My dad, Derek, tried to help me understand.
He was a good father. He worked hard, packed my lunches when he could, and sat beside me during thunderstorms because I was convinced lightning could break through the windows.
But after Mom died, he became a man who was always tired.
He worked in commercial construction management, leaving before sunrise and often returning after I had fallen asleep. He wanted to give me everything he could.
Unfortunately, grief had left a space in our house that neither of us knew how to fill.
Simone entered our lives less than a year after Mom's funeral.
She was thirty-four, always perfectly dressed, with glossy brown hair and a voice that sounded gentle even when she was saying something cruel.
She met Dad at a charity dinner hosted by his company.
Three months later, she moved into our house.
Six months after that, they married.
I remembered standing in a white dress at the ceremony, holding a little bouquet while adults told me how lucky I was to have a new mother.
Simone crouched in front of me afterward and adjusted the ribbon around my waist.
"You can call me Mom if you want, sweetheart," she said.
I had looked at her hopefully.
"Will you read me bedtime stories?""
She smiled for the guests standing nearby.
"Of course, darling.""
That night, she told me she had a headache and sent me upstairs alone.
I never asked again.
At first, the changes seemed small.
Simone reorganized the kitchen and threw away the chipped blue mug my mother used every morning.
She replaced the family photographs in the hallway with framed pictures of herself and Dad.
She told me my mother's old curtains looked depressing and took them down while I was at school.
When I cried over the empty windows, she sighed.
"Chloe, your father needs a fresh start. You don't want to make him sad by constantly reminding him of the past, do you?""
I shook my head.
"Good girl.""
So I stopped talking about Mom.
I stopped asking Dad to look at old photographs.
And whenever he came home late, exhausted and carrying his briefcase, I smiled and told him everything was fine.
Because I loved him.
And because I could see how badly he wanted our new family to work.
For a while, I believed it was working.
Then my money began disappearing.
The first time, I had twelve dollars in my pink piggy bank.
I had earned it by helping Dad wash his truck and collecting loose change from the laundry room. I kept the coins in a little plastic cup and counted them every Sunday.
One Sunday afternoon, I opened the piggy bank and found only three quarters.
I sat on my bedroom floor, staring at the empty space beneath its ceramic snout.
Maybe I had counted wrong.
I emptied the bank onto my blanket and counted everything twice.
Seventy-five cents.
The following week, Dad gave me five dollars for helping him sort the screws and nails in his garage.
I tucked the bill into an envelope decorated with yellow stars.
Two days later, the envelope was empty.
I checked my backpack, my desk drawers, and beneath my mattress.
Nothing.
When I asked Simone if she had seen it, she was standing at the kitchen counter, cutting strawberries into a glass bowl.
She didn't turn around.
"Seen what?""
"My five dollars.""
The knife stopped.
Then she resumed cutting.
"Why would I know where your money is?""
"I just thought maybe—"
"Maybe what, Chloe?""
Her voice was still soft, but something in it made my stomach tighten.
"Nothing.""
She placed a strawberry in her mouth and chewed slowly.
"Children who lose things shouldn't be given more things to lose. That's what my mother always said.""
I went upstairs without another word.
That evening, I watched Simone buy a new handbag online while Dad sat at the dining table answering work emails.
The handbag cost more than everything in my piggy bank.
I didn't say anything.
A month later, my birthday arrived.
Dad had promised to take me to the aquarium, and I spent the entire week counting down the days.
He bought me a small cake with pink frosting and a pair of sneakers I'd wanted since the beginning of the school year.
My grandparents sent me a card with thirty dollars inside.
Dad's sister, Aunt Melissa, mailed me twenty dollars and a note that said I should buy something that made me smile.
I put the money into my envelope and hid it beneath a stack of coloring books.
That night, Simone came into my room carrying folded laundry.
"Why are you still awake?""
"I'm putting my birthday cards away.""
She placed my pajamas on the bed and glanced at the envelope.
"How much money did you get?""
I hesitated.
"Fifty dollars.""
Her eyebrows rose.
"Fifty dollars? For a nine-year-old?""
"Grandma and Aunt Melissa sent it.""
Simone picked up the envelope.
I stood so quickly that my knees struck the desk.
"Please don't take it. I'm saving for a bicycle.""
She looked at me with an expression of exaggerated disappointment.
"Chloe, do you know how much it costs to keep this house running?""
I shook my head.
"Your father works himself sick to provide for you. The least you can do is learn that money doesn't grow on trees.""
"But it's my birthday money.""
She slipped the envelope into the pocket of her cardigan.
"Then you should learn not to waste it.""
I reached toward her pocket.
She caught my wrist.
Not hard enough to leave a bruise.
Just hard enough to make sure I understood.
"Don't ever grab at me again.""
I froze.
She released me and walked out, carrying the envelope.
I waited until her footsteps disappeared downstairs before I began to cry.
The next morning, I checked her purse while she was in the shower.
I knew I shouldn't.
But I wanted to see my envelope one more time.
It wasn't there.
I never got the money back.
After that, I started keeping records.
I found a tiny spiral notebook in the back of my desk drawer. On the first page, I wrote my name in purple marker.
On the second page, I wrote:
October 3 — $12 from piggy bank. Only $0.75 left.
October 11 — $5 from Daddy. Missing.
November 6 — $50 birthday money. Simone took it.
I didn't know whether I was making a list for myself or collecting evidence for a future I couldn't imagine.
I only knew that writing things down made me feel less confused.
When I saw my money disappearing, I could tell myself I hadn't imagined it.
Then came the twenty-dollar bill.
That morning, Dad was home early because a meeting at work had been canceled.
He stood at the kitchen counter in his white shirt and loosened tie while I ate cereal.
"How's school, kiddo?"" he asked.
"Good.""
"Still need those supplies your teacher mentioned?""
I nodded and pulled the crumpled list from my pocket.
"We need colored pencils, a new ruler, and a notebook. Mrs. Bennett said we have to bring them by Friday.""
Dad took the list.
"Easy enough.""
He reached into his wallet and handed me a twenty.
"Here you go. Buy what you need, and keep the change. You can put it toward that bicycle you've been talking about.""
For a moment, I forgot to be afraid.
"Really?""
"Really."" He ruffled my hair.
"Just don't spend it all on candy.""
I smiled.
Then Simone walked into the kitchen.
She wore a cream-colored blouse and gold earrings, and she carried her phone in one hand. She glanced at the bill in my fingers.
"What is that?""
"Money for Chloe's school supplies," Dad answered.
Simone crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and snatched it from my hand.
"She doesn't deserve another twenty dollars!""
The words struck harder than the sudden sting on my wrist.
Dad lowered his coffee.
"Excuse me?""
"You heard me, Derek. She has no idea how lucky she is. Every week, you're handing her money for one thing or another.""
"It's for school.""
"She already has pencils.""
"Her teacher sent home a list.""
Simone waved the bill.
"Then you can buy the supplies yourself. You don't need to hand her cash like she's some little princess.""
I stood perfectly still.
Dad's expression tightened.
"Give her the money back, Simone.""
She stared at him.
"Why? So she can lose it again?""
My heart began pounding.
She knew.
She knew I had noticed.
Simone turned toward me, and her smile was so cold that I felt the kitchen grow smaller.
"Tell your father what you did with the birthday money your aunt gave you.""
I swallowed.
"I didn't do anything.""
"Don't lie.""
"I didn't!""
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Simone slapped the bill onto the counter.
"Look at that attitude! This is exactly why she needs discipline. You baby her, Derek, and then you wonder why she acts like she owns the place.""
Dad pushed his chair back.
"That's enough.""
Simone folded her arms.
"Fine. Take her side again. That's what you always do.""
I reached into my pocket.
My fingers found the little spiral notebook.
I had carried it everywhere for weeks, terrified Simone might discover it in my room.
Now my hands were shaking so badly that I nearly dropped it.
"Daddy?""
Dad turned toward me.
I pulled out the notebook and opened it to the page with the dates.
"What's this, sweetheart?""
My voice came out in a whisper.
"I wrote it down because I thought maybe I was forgetting.""
He crouched in front of me.
"Forget what?""
I pressed the notebook into his hand.
"My money keeps disappearing.""
The kitchen went silent.
Dad looked at the page.
Then he looked at me.
"How long has this been happening?""
I tried to answer, but tears blurred the writing.
"Since October.""
He turned another page.
"And the birthday money?""
I nodded.
"Simone took it.""
Dad slowly stood up.
Simone lunged across the counter for the notebook.
"Give me that!""
Dad stepped between us and pulled the notebook against his chest.
"Don't touch her.""
For the first time since she had moved into our house, Simone looked genuinely frightened.
Not angry.
Not offended.
Frightened.
Her eyes darted toward the notebook, then toward the hallway leading to Dad's home office.
And when Dad opened his mouth to ask her why a nine-year-old girl had been secretly recording every missing dollar, Simone said something that made his face go pale.
"If you start digging into money that doesn't concern you, Derek, you're going to destroy this family.""
Dad stared at her.
Then he looked down at my notebook again.
And I realized that my little list of missing money had uncovered something much bigger than a stolen twenty-dollar bill.
May you like
Because for the first time, my father wasn't asking me to understand Simone.
He was beginning to question her.
