Maybe if you spent less time playing with crayons and more time on a

Brittany wasn’t done. She leaned forward, swirling her glass. “I mean, seriously, Diana, finger paints? At your age? Mark needed a partner, not a glorified babysitter.” Mark coughed into his napkin. My mother-in-law, Linda, the woman who once called me her second daughter, suddenly found her green beans fascinating. I reached into my tote bag and pulled out a thin manila envelope. I slid it across the table toward Linda. “I wasn’t going to bring this up tonight,” I said softly, “but since we’re being honest about careers, I think you should open it.” Linda frowned and tore the seal. Inside was a letter from the Whitfield Foundation, the same foundation that had quietly funded Linda’s struggling nonprofit for the last six years. The signature at the bottom was mine. Director of Grant Allocation. Annual stipend included. I’d taken the position after the divorce, on weekends and summers, because teaching was my joy, not my ceiling. Linda’s hand started shaking. “You… you’re the donor? You’re the reason we kept the youth center open?” Brittany’s face drained of color, because Brittany had spent two years bragging that her PR firm had “saved” that center. The truth was, her firm had been fired by the board last spring. I’d voted on it. “I never told anyone,” I said, “because I didn’t want it to be about me. But I’m stepping down from the board next month. The new director will be reviewing every contract, including the consulting fee Brittany’s been billing under a shell company.” Mark finally looked up. “Diana, wait—” I stood, gathered my coat, and kissed Linda gently on the forehead. “The casserole’s still warm. Brittany, sweetheart, enjoy the rolls.” I walked out into the snow with my sketchbook tucked under my arm, my phone already buzzing with three board members asking if I was alright. I was. For the first time in years, I really, truly was.