Chapter 7 - The Fireworks Permit
Rachel’s office became command central.
By Tuesday morning, she had copies of the fake owner authorization, the fake email, the city permit application, my father’s signed representative form, and a vendor schedule that treated my property like a commercial venue.
I had a simpler document.
A single page titled NOTICE OF NO CONSENT.
Rachel sent it to every vendor we could identify.
No one was authorized to enter. No structures could be erected. No alcohol could be served. No fireworks could be discharged. Any attempt to access the property would be refused.
Most vendors reacted professionally.
A few reacted with panic.
One rental company had already loaded four hundred chairs because Brielle had doubled the order for “ceremony flexibility.” The caterer had purchased food for two hundred people. The florist had imported specialty roses.
I felt sorry for them.
I did not feel responsible for fixing Brielle’s deception.
That distinction became important.
At noon, my mother called from a number I did not recognize.
I answered because I thought it was a vendor.
“Delaney, please don’t hang up.”
“You changed phones?”
“I’m using Aunt Cynthia’s.”
“Why?”
“Because you stopped answering me.”
“I stopped answering after you told me to let people trespass so we could heal later.”
She began crying.
Not loud. My mother never cried loudly. She cried in a way that made everyone else feel as if they had dropped something fragile.
“Your sister is falling apart.”
“She created this.”
“She made mistakes.”
“She forged my name.”
“She was desperate.”
I stared out the window at the live oaks.
There it was.
The sentence our family had used for years.
Brielle was not cruel. She was overwhelmed.
Brielle was not selfish. She was sensitive.
Brielle did not lie. She panicked.
And somehow the person hurt by her panic was always expected to be the calm one.
“Mom, if I had forged your signature to take your house, would you call it a mistake?”
Silence.
“That’s different.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It’s a wedding.”
“It’s my property.”
She lowered her voice.
“Please. Just let the ceremony happen in the garden. Nothing inside. No fireworks. We’ll move the reception somewhere else.”
I laughed once, because I could not believe she was bargaining over parts of my home as though they belonged to the family committee.
“No.”
Her crying stopped.
When she spoke again, her voice was cold.
“Then you need to understand that what happens to your relationship with this family is on you.”
I almost answered.
Then another call came in.
Owen.
I switched lines.
His voice was tight.
“Delaney, I found the venue folder.”
“What folder?”
“The one Brielle kept telling me didn’t exist.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What’s in it?”
May you like
He took a breath.
“Your house isn’t the only thing she lied about.”
