The Portrait in the Trash

Three years into my marriage, my husband's family stole my dad's accident settlement money and used it to buy a luxury mansion.

At the housewarming party, my mother-in-law decided my parents' memorial portraits were bad luck and threw them in the trash.

My husband told me to just let it go. His sister held up her phone and live-streamed herself calling me a jinx to the whole internet.

They thought I had no one in my corner. They thought I deserved to be crushed under their heels.

I didn't fight. I didn't argue. I just quietly wiped the mud off the portraitsand pulled out a yellowed IOU for ten million.

The rain came down in sheets.

I knelt beside the trash bins in the mansion complex, digging through the reeking kitchen garbage with my bare hands.

Rainwater mixed with slop splashed across my face.

My fingers got sliced open on broken glass, blood streaming down with the mud and water.

But I couldn't feel the pain.

I only felt cold.

Cold straight to the bone.

Ten minutes ago, I'd just set my parents' memorial portraits in the spare bedroom of the new house.

Today was the housewarming party.

It was also the first day Kairo and I moved into the new place after getting married.

I just wanted my mom and dad to see my new home.

But the moment I turned to go get water in the kitchen, the portraits vanished.

My mother-in-law, Beverly, stood in the living room directing the housekeeper to spray air freshener.

"Why would anyone bring junk frames like that into a new house? Smells like death."

"Bad luck to keep them around. Better to just throw them out."

I tore downstairs like a madwoman.

Finally, in a black garbage bag at the very bottom, my hand found that familiar wooden frame.

The glass was already shattered.

My parents' faces were smeared with vegetable scraps and grease.

That was the last thing I had left of them in this world.

I took off the expensive coat Kairo had bought me before the wedding and carefully wrapped the portraits up.

Like I was holding two frightened children.

I carried them, step by step, back to that brightly lit mansion.

Standing at the door, I didn't push it open right away.

Rainwater ran down my bangs and into my eyes. I blinked, but didn't move.

Something in the bag pressed against my palmthe corner of that waterproof pouch.

I glanced down at my hand.

Took a deep breath. And pushed the door open.

The hall was full of glittering guests, every one of them dripping in gold and designer clothes.

The Sinclair family's relatives and business partners were holding champagne, celebrating that my father-in-law Richard's company was about to go public.

And celebrating the family moving into this fifty-million-dollar luxury mansion.

The moment I pushed the door open, the laughter died.

I was soaked through, black sludge dripping off the hem of my dress.

In my arms, a filthy bundle.

I looked like a ghost who'd wandered into a high-society party.

Beberly frowned, disgust flickering in her eyes.

"Juliette, what the hell is wrong with you? Do you know what day this is? You show up looking like that just to ruin everything for me?"

Kairo strode over quickly.

He was wearing a tailored suit today, his hair styled to perfection.

He reached out to pull me close, but the second he touched my sludge-covered sleeve, he flinched back without thinking.

"Juliette, stop making a scene."

He lowered his voice. "Mom just thinks it's bad luck to keep memorial photos in a new house. Go upstairs and clean up first, before you embarrass us in front of everyone."

I looked at him.

This was the man I'd loved for three years.

Before we got married, he'd held my hand and said, "From now on, my family is your family. My parents are your parents."

But now, my parents' portraits were thrown in the trash.

And all he felt was that I'd embarrassed him.

"I'm making a scene?"

My voice wasn't loud, but in the silent hall it was crystal clear.

"Beverly threw my parents' memorial portraits in the trash, and you call that bad luck?"

A wave of whispers swept through the hall.

His sister, Tracy, let out a scornful laugh.

She held up her phone, mid-livestream, and shoved the camera right into my face.

"So your whole family's dead, and you just had to drag two photos of corpses into our new house."

"A perfectly nice housewarming party, and you've turned it into a funeral."

"Everyone online is watching. Let's let them judgewho brings this kind of bad luck into their new family?"

My fingertips went stiff.

The edge of the frame inside the coat pressed into my palm.

Like my dad's thin, withered hand right before he died.

When he handed me an old account book, he'd said, "Juliette, don't ever use a debt of gratitude to pressure someone unless you've truly got no other choice. But if someday someone walks all over you, don't go playing the bigger person on your dad's behalf either."

Back then I just nodded.

I thought I'd never have to use it.

I thought the Sinclair family had truly accepted me.

I walked over to the long banquet table.

There sat a massive three-tier fondant cake, with "Congratulations on the Sinclair Family's New Home" written across it.

I gently set the bundle from my arms onto the table.

Unwrapped the coat.

The shattered frame emerged, carrying a sharp, sour, rotting smell.

The wealthy women around me covered their noses and stepped back.

Beverly's face went livid. "Juliette! You get that filthy thing out of here right now!"

"The ones who should get out of here are all of you."

From the soaked bag, I pulled out an old account book sealed in a waterproof pouch.

On the first page, a yellowed IOU was tucked inside.

Borrower: Richard Sinclair.

"You still recognize this handwriting, don't you?"

I slapped the IOU down on the table.

The corner of the paper quickly soaked through with the champagne on the table.

Richard's hand jerked, the wine glass trembling.

Wine spilled onto his designer leather shoes.

He instinctively reached out to grab the IOU.

I let out a cold laugh and pinned his hand down hard with the account book.

His hand was nailed there, unable to move.

The sound in the hall seemed to be choked off all at once.

I stared into his eyes and spoke slowly.

"Ten million."

"Dad."

Kairo's voice tightened. "Is is this real?"

Richard's throat bobbed, his face shifting from red to white.

Beverly lunged forward. "You're talking nonsense! What ten million? A broke little orphan girl like youwhere would you get ten million?"

"Ten million from twelve years ago and ten million todayare those the same thing?"

I ignored her and flipped open the inner flap of the account book.

An old photograph slipped out.

In the photo, my dad stood at the entrance of a run-down factory.

Beside him was a much younger Richard, his face full of eager flattery.

On the back, in my dad's handwriting: witnessed by my best buddy.

Richard stared at that photo like he'd seen a ghost.

"This account book" His voice went hoarse. "Your dad really left it to you?"

I didn't answer.

I just laid the photo and the IOU side by side, so every guest at the table could see clearly.

A few of the wealthy wives standing beside Beverly leaned in.

When they saw the amount and the signature, their expressions changed.

"Ten million? Richard, that's no small number."

Richard suddenly snatched his hand back, forcing himself to look calm.

"That's ancient history! Your dad did help me out back then, but that was an investment! Business has ups and downshow can you call it a loan?"

Those words were as good as admitting he'd taken the money.

Beverly caught on immediately, straightening her back again.

"Exactly! If your dad really treated it as a loan, why didn't he come collect all these years? Now that you've married into our Sinclair family, eating our food, living under our roof, you start digging up old debts?"

Tracy's phone camera nearly jabbed me in the face.

"You all hear that? This woman's just a gold digger! Bringing up a debt from over a decade ago to extort our family!"

I looked into the camera and suddenly felt how absurd it all was.

Every brick in this mansion was soaked in my dad's blood and sweat.

All I'd done was set down two memorial portraits.

And they still complained they took up space.

I closed the account book, then opened it again.

"Richard, if you've really forgotten, I can help you rememberpage by page."