When Tracy strutted into the kitchen, baring those blinding, too-white veneers she’d bought with my stolen college fund, it felt like my mother had been erased in one swipe of a credit card. Every joke she cracked about her “upgrade” landed like a slap. Dad’s silence was worse; it said my pain was negotiable, my future optional. I swallowed my anger because there was nowhere for it to go—no way to bring my mom back, no way to un-spend what was gone.

Then, at that barbecue, the universe answered in a single crunch. Her veneers snapped on a cob of corn, plastic shards and panic spilling across the lawn. The laughter she’d weaponized turned on her. In the days that followed, Dad finally snapped out of his fog. He confronted her, demanded repayment, and rebuilt my college fund dollar by dollar. I didn’t need to destroy her; watching the illusion she’d built crumble was enough. In the end, my mother’s legacy returned to me, not as pity money, but as a promise finally honored.