Claire followed behind him, eyes wide, lips pressed together, not looking at us.
Andrea watched them go, then turned to me.
“Mom?” she said.
She opened her hand.
The receipts were crumpled and warm from her grip.
“I didn’t want to be bought,” she said. “I just wanted you to believe me.”
I pulled her into a hug right there in the courthouse hallway.
“I believe you,” I said into her hair. “Always.”
That night, back in our tiny house with the peeling paint and the shared bathroom, she stood over the trash can with the receipts.
“You sure?” I asked.
She nodded and dropped them in.
“They’re just paper.
You’re my mom.”
We sat on our sagging couch, sharing microwave popcorn, watching some dumb baking show.
No floor-to-ceiling windows. No valet. No designer anything.
Just my kid leaning against me, sketchbook in her lap, choosing to be there.
I still worry about money.
I still say “maybe later.”
But now I know this: He tried to buy her answer. She chose to be believed instead.
And once a kid understands their own worth, no amount of money can compete with that.
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