Finally, you call the bank and cancel every card except yours.

The first call comes when they reach the terminal.

You don’t answer.

Then the messages start—confusion, then panic.

Why isn’t the gate clearing?
Why are the cards declining?
What did you do?

You watch calmly. For years, you fixed everything. This time, you don’t.

When your mother calls again, you answer.

“They say we can’t board,” she snaps.

“That’s because you can’t,” you reply.

Then you say what they never expected—you saw everything. The messages. The insults. The way they called you a servant while living off your work.