She was right. Over the next two days, Victoria’s behavior became increasingly erratic. She showed up at my old apartment building, screaming at tenants. She posted long, rambling rants on social media, each one more unhinged than the last. She claimed I’d used witchcraft to manipulate Grandma Dorothy, that I was part of a conspiracy, that she was the real victim of elder abuse. Each post only made things worse for her. The public watched her self-destruct in real time, and any sympathy that might have existed evaporated.
Kenneth tried a different approach. He went on a local news program, presenting himself as the reasonable middle ground. “Look, I think there were mistakes made on both sides,” he said earnestly to the camera. “Yes, maybe we weren’t as welcoming to Rachel as we should have been, but to cut the entire family out over childhood disagreements—that seems extreme.”
The interviewer wasn’t buying it. “Mr. Kenneth, are you aware that your parents received three-quarters of a million dollars intended for Rachel’s care, which they allegedly spent on your education and your sister’s?”
Kenneth’s composure cracked. “That’s… that money was for the whole family. Rachel benefited from it, too.”
“She wore hand-me-downs while your sister got designer clothes. She took out loans for community college while you attended a private university fully funded. How exactly did she benefit?”
Kenneth ended the interview early, but the damage was done. The public saw through him.
My father tried yet another tactic, appealing to sympathy. He gave a tearful interview about how he’d loved me like a daughter, how this was breaking his heart, how families should forgive each other. “We made mistakes,” Gregory said, his voice breaking. “What parent hasn’t? But to be cut off completely, to be accused of theft—it’s destroying us. Patricia can barely get out of bed. Kenneth’s marriage is suffering. Victoria’s having a breakdown. All because we weren’t perfect.”
The interviewer, the same one who dismantled Kenneth, showed no mercy. “Mr. Gregory, you’re describing what you did as ‘not being perfect.’ But investigators have documented years of emotional abuse, financial exploitation, and systematic exclusion of Rachel from family activities. This goes beyond imperfection.”
“That’s not abuse! That’s just family dynamics. Every family has issues.”
“Every family doesn’t steal three-quarters of a million dollars from a child.”
My father walked out, too.
But my mother’s approach was the most calculated. Patricia hired a PR firm and gave a carefully crafted interview to a sympathetic journalist. She wore a simple dress, minimal makeup, positioned herself in soft lighting. She cried at all the right moments. “I loved Rachel from the moment we brought her home,” Patricia said, dabbing her eyes. “She was this beautiful, broken little girl who’d lost everything. I wanted to give her a family, a home, love. Yes, we were stricter with her than with our biological children. Maybe that was wrong, but we were trying to prepare her for a hard world. We knew she’d face challenges as an adopted child, and we wanted her to be strong.”
The journalist ate it up. “And the money? That money was meant for her care, and that’s what we used it for. Housing, food, utilities. Raising a child is expensive. Maybe we should have documented every expense. But we were a family, not a business.” She looked directly into the camera. “Rachel, if you’re watching, please know I love you. I always have. Can we please just talk—without lawyers, without the media, just mother and daughter?”
I watched the interview with Grandma Dorothy and Walter. When it ended, I felt sick.
“She’s good,” Walter admitted. “This is the most sympathetic they’ve looked since this started.”
“She’s a liar,” I said flatly. “She never loved me. This is just another manipulation.”
“I know,” Grandma Dorothy said. “But some people will believe her. The question is, do you care?”
Did I? A week ago, I might have cared desperately. I’d have wanted everyone to know the truth, to see Patricia for what she really was. But now… “No,” I said, “I don’t care what strangers think. The people who matter know the truth.”
Grandma Dorothy smiled. “Good girl.”
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