Chapter 3: The Secret Behind My Sister's Smile
I returned home just before seven that evening.
The house was unusually quiet.
No television.
No music.
No sound from the kitchen.
I opened the front door and immediately noticed my mother's shoes beside the staircase.
She was waiting in the living room.
Vanessa sat on the sofa with a cold compress pressed against her forehead, although I knew perfectly well that nobody had hit her.
She looked up when I entered.
"Congratulations," she said.
"You've ruined everything.""
I placed my bag on the floor.
"Hello to you too.""
My mother stood.
"Don't start.""
"I haven't said anything.""
"You embarrassed your sister in front of hundreds of people.""
"She stole my painting.""
Vanessa made a wounded noise.
"There you go again.""
My mother turned toward me.
"Why can't you just be happy for her?""
I stared at her.
"Happy?""
"She worked hard to get this opportunity.""
I almost laughed.
"Mom, I have photographs of me creating that painting. I have videos. I have the original sketches.""
My mother waved her hand.
"Vanessa explained everything.""
"Did she explain why she slapped me?""
Silence.
Vanessa lowered the compress.
"Because you attacked me first.""
I looked at her.
"What?""
"You grabbed the painting and wouldn't let go. I was trying to protect it.""
"You slapped me.""
"Stop exaggerating.""
My mother stepped between us.
"Enough. I don't want another argument.""
I looked at her carefully.
"Did you know Vanessa took my painting?""
My mother hesitated.
It was brief.
But I saw it.
"Mom?""
She sighed.
"Your sister told me she needed to borrow it.""
"Borrow it?""
"She said you had agreed.""
I shook my head.
"That's a lie.""
"Don't call your sister a liar.""
"Then what should I call someone who takes my work and presents it as her own?""
Vanessa stood.
"You're making this sound much worse than it is.""
I turned toward her.
"You told the judges you created it.""
"I helped develop the concept.""
"You didn't even know the title.""
"Because you never explained it properly!""
I stared at her.
Then I remembered Richard's words.
The application for the Emerging Artist Fellowship.
The portfolio.
The declaration.
"Vanessa, why did you submit my sketches with your fellowship application?""
Her expression changed.
Only for a second.
But it was enough.
My mother looked between us.
"What application?""
Vanessa quickly recovered.
"Nothing. It's a separate program.""
"With my sketches?""
"They were collaborative.""
"No. They were mine.""
Vanessa threw the compress onto the sofa.
"Do you have any idea how difficult it is to build a career? You sit in that room playing with paint, and you think talent is enough.""
I stared at her.
"Apparently, you think stealing it is enough.""
Her cheeks flushed.
"You've always been selfish.""
That was when my mother finally spoke.
"Vanessa has responsibilities, Maya. She has bills. She has a future to think about.""
I looked at her.
"And I don't?""
My mother folded her arms.
"You have your whole life ahead of you.""
"That's what you always say when Vanessa wants something.""
"Because she's older.""
"She's five years older, not five hundred.""
Vanessa grabbed her handbag.
"Mom, I'm done.""
She walked toward the staircase.
I stepped aside.
As she passed, she leaned close enough for me to smell her perfume.
"Enjoy your little victory," she whispered.
"It won't last.""
I turned.
"What does that mean?""
She smiled without warmth.
"You'll find out.""
Then she climbed the stairs.
My mother followed her.
I remained downstairs.
For several minutes, I listened to their footsteps moving across the upper floor.
Then I heard a door close.
I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water.
My phone vibrated.
It was an email from the Sterling competition.
*Subject: Important Update Regarding Your Entry*
I opened it.
The message explained that the judges had temporarily suspended the final results pending an authorship investigation.
My live presentation had received the highest preliminary technical score.
However, the original painting's ownership dispute had raised questions about the competition's registration process.
They needed additional documentation.
I was instructed to attend an interview the following morning.
At the bottom was a sentence that made my stomach tighten.
Please bring any materials related to the creation, purchase, development, or transfer of the disputed artwork.
I read it twice.
Then I opened my laptop.
I had kept nearly everything.
Receipts.
Sketches.
Digital photographs.
Paint samples.
Even the small notebook where I recorded the measurements for the original composition.
I searched through the folders until I found one labeled ORIGINAL PROJECT.
Inside were hundreds of files.
I began organizing them by date.
At 8:42 p.m., I found a photograph from June.
It showed my painting resting against the studio wall.
The gold frame was already attached.
My signature was visible in the corner.
But there was something else in the photograph.
A small white envelope sitting on the worktable.
I zoomed in.
The envelope had a printed logo.
*CARTER CREATIVE FOUNDATION.*
I frowned.
I had never heard of that organization.
I checked the photograph's date.
June 14.
Then I opened another image taken that same day.
This one showed my mother standing beside the canvas.
She was holding the envelope.
Vanessa stood behind her.
Both were smiling.
I stared at the screen.
Why had my mother been in my studio that afternoon?
And what was the foundation?
I searched the name online.
The first result was an archived website.
The Carter Creative Foundation had been established eight years earlier to support young artists from disadvantaged families.
Its founder was listed as Daniel Carter.
My father.
I sat back.
Dad had died when I was fourteen.
He had been a quiet man who loved music, old books, and painting landscapes on weekends.
Before he died, he had often told me that I should never abandon art.
I remembered his words.
"If you have something worth saying, Maya, find a way to put it on a canvas.""
I clicked the foundation's archived page.
There was a photograph of Dad standing beside a large painting.
Underneath was a short description of the foundation's mission.
It had supported three young artists over the years.
One of them was listed as Vanessa Carter.
I stared.
Vanessa?
The page showed a photograph of her at seventeen, holding a certificate.
The caption read:
Recipient of the Daniel Carter Young Artist Scholarship.
I scrolled down.
There was another photograph.
A teenage Vanessa standing in front of a classroom with an art instructor.
The date was eight years earlier.
My chest tightened.
She had told everyone she had never been interested in art until recently.
She had told me that she considered painting a childish hobby.
Yet here she was, receiving an award for it.
I opened the foundation's financial report.
Most of the document was ordinary accounting information.
Then I found a line that made my hands stop moving.
*Scholarship disbursement: Vanessa Carter — $18,000.*
The money had been issued over two years.
I read the entry again.
Then I noticed the next line.
*Reserved scholarship balance: Maya Carter — $18,000.*
I blinked.
My name.
My father's foundation had reserved money for me.
I had never known.
I scrolled further.
The balance had been transferred.
Not to an educational institution.
Not to an art program.
It had been moved into a private account.
The account holder's name was partially visible.
V. Carter.
I leaned back slowly.
The house suddenly felt unfamiliar.
My phone rang.
The number was unknown.
I answered cautiously.
"Hello?""
"Is this Maya Carter?""
"Yes.""
"My name is Eleanor Brooks. I was your father's attorney.""
I sat upright.
"My father's attorney?""
"Yes. I apologize for calling so late. I received a notification from the Sterling International Art Competition this afternoon. Your name appeared in connection with the Carter Creative Foundation.""
I gripped the phone.
"How?""
"Your father left several documents with me. One of them concerns the scholarship he established in your name.""
I closed my eyes.
"Did he leave money for me?""
There was a pause.
"Yes.""
"How much?""
"Thirty-six thousand dollars.""
I felt the room tilt.
"Thirty-six thousand?""
"That was the original amount reserved for your education and artistic development. Your father wanted you to have the opportunity to study abroad if you wished.""
I looked toward the ceiling.
Vanessa's footsteps sounded faintly overhead.
"Why didn't I know about it?""
Eleanor sighed.
"Because the account was supposed to be administered by your mother until you turned twenty-one. When the funds were transferred, the foundation received documentation indicating that you had voluntarily withdrawn from the scholarship.""
I stared at the laptop.
"I never withdrew.""
"I suspected that might be the case.""
My throat tightened.
"Who signed the document?""
Another pause.
Then Eleanor said, "Your sister.""
I couldn't breathe.
"Vanessa?""
"Yes. But that's not the only concern. The withdrawal form included a statement claiming that you had abandoned your artistic education and transferred your scholarship rights to another family member.""
I gripped the edge of the table.
"Who received the money?""
Eleanor lowered her voice.
"That is something we need to investigate. But I have reason to believe it was used to finance your sister's private art training.""
I stared at the scholarship amount on the screen.
Eighteen thousand dollars.
The foundation's public report.
My sister's old certificate.
My mother's envelope.
Everything began connecting.
Vanessa hadn't suddenly discovered that she wanted to become an artist.
She had been given an opportunity by our father.
An opportunity that was supposed to belong to me too.
And now she had taken my painting.
I heard a floorboard creak above me.
Then a voice.
"Maya?""
I turned.
My mother stood in the kitchen doorway.
Her face was pale.
She looked at the phone in my hand.
Then at the laptop.
"What are you doing?""
I slowly stood.
"Talking to Dad's attorney.""
My mother's expression changed.
The color drained from her cheeks.
"Hang up.""
I stared at her.
"Why?""
"Because you don't understand what you're getting involved in.""
I lowered the phone slightly.
"Eleanor says Dad left me thirty-six thousand dollars.""
My mother didn't answer.
"She says you were supposed to manage it until I turned twenty-one.""
Still nothing.
"She says Vanessa signed a document transferring my scholarship.""
My mother's lips parted.
I took one step toward her.
"Did you know?""
She looked toward the staircase.
That single movement told me more than any answer could have.
"Mom," I whispered.
"Did you know Vanessa took my scholarship money?""
My mother finally looked at me.
And then she said something I would never forget.
"Your father wanted Vanessa to have a future too.""
I stared at her.
"That doesn't answer my question.""
She wiped her hands against her cardigan.
"Your sister was struggling. She needed help. You were always talented, Maya. You could have found another way.""
My throat tightened.
"So you gave her my money?""
"It wasn't like that.""
"Then what was it like?""
My mother took a breath.
"Vanessa was the one who needed it more.""
I felt something inside me break.
For years, I had believed that my family simply didn't understand my dreams.
Now I was beginning to understand something much worse.
They had understood perfectly.
They had just decided that Vanessa's dreams mattered more.
My phone was still connected.
Eleanor had heard everything.
Her voice came through the speaker.
"Mrs. Carter?""
My mother froze.
"Who is that?""
"This is Eleanor Brooks. I would strongly advise you not to discuss the foundation documents any further without legal counsel.""
My mother stared at the phone.
Then she looked at me.
For the first time that evening, she seemed afraid.
Eleanor continued.
"There's another matter I need to bring to your attention, Maya.""
I raised the phone.
"What is it?""
"The document Vanessa signed wasn't the only document submitted to the foundation.""
I frowned.
"What do you mean?""
Eleanor's voice became quieter.
"Your father also left a sealed letter for you. It was scheduled to be delivered when you turned twenty-two.""
My birthday had been three months earlier.
"Why didn't I receive it?""
"Because someone requested that delivery be postponed.""
My mother closed her eyes.
I looked at her.
"Who?""
Eleanor answered before she could.
"Your mother.""
The kitchen went silent.
Then Eleanor added one final sentence.
"And Maya, after reading the letter, I think you'll understand why your father insisted that you never give up painting.""
I stared at my mother.
She didn't deny it.
She didn't apologize.
She simply stood there, holding the edge of the doorway as if the floor beneath her had begun to move.
May you like
And upstairs, Vanessa's bedroom door suddenly slammed shut.
*The letter was still hidden somewhere in that house.*
