72 hours after I gave birth, my mom walked into my hospital room with custody papers for my baby. She said my “infertile” sister deserved him more than I did. I paid $42,500 for her IVF treatments.

“Until you’re healthy again.”

“I’m healthy enough to recognize fraud.”

The smile froze instantly.

Mom recovered first. “Be careful.”

I picked up my phone. “Funny thing. That IVF clinic you sent me invoices from? The Hopewell Reproductive Institute?”

Celeste’s lips parted.

“I called them.”

Brent adjusted his tie nervously. “That’s harassment.”

“No,” I said calmly. “That’s research. Especially since the number on the invoice belongs to a prepaid phone. The address leads to a dental supply warehouse. And the doctor listed there died in 2019.”

Mom’s face hardened into the exact expression I remembered from childhood: the look she wore before punishment.

“You started digging three days after giving birth?” she hissed.

“I was bored between contractions.”

Celeste snapped immediately. “You’re lying.”

I opened my banking app, angling the screen just enough for them to see the transfers. “Forty-two thousand five hundred dollars. Sent over eleven months. You cried through every request.”

Her eyes flashed angrily. “You have no idea what it feels like to be me.”

“No. I only know what it feels like to finance you.”