Adopted Sister’s Dowry That Costs My Life Chapter 03
The Sterlings’ attorney’s office makes Marcus’s look like a broom closet. It’s in a historic building with crown molding and oil paintings of serious men who probably owned half the city a century ago. I’m shown into a conference room by a woman whose suit costs more than my hospital bill.
Three people are already seated at the mahogany table. An older man with silver hair and a watch that probably costs more than my parent’s house. A woman with pearls and the kind of posture that suggests finishing schools and summer homes. And a younger man who looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.
“Grace Sterling,” the older man says, standing. “I’m Richard Sterling. This is my wife, Elizabeth, and my son, James.”
James. Freya’s almost-husband. He won’t meet my eyes.
Richard gestures to a chair. “Please, sit.”
Marcus is beside me, his briefcase on the table. “My client appreciates you reaching out. Let’s discuss how you’re going to make this right.”
Elizabeth Sterling folds her hands. “We were unaware of the… source of the wedding funds. When our investigator found the wire transfer
documentation, we were appalled.”
“Appalled,” Marcus repeats. “Yet you accepted $800,000 in gifts from a middle-class family without questioning the source?”
Richard’s jaw tightens. “We were told it was from the sale of their home. We had no reason to suspect-“
“You had every reason,” I interrupt. My voice is quiet, but it cuts through the room. Everyone looks at me. “A family sells their house for $1.7 million and gives you $800,000 of it as a wedding gift? That’s not generous. That’s suspicious.”
James finally speaks. “We didn’t know. I swear.”
I turn to him. He’s younger than I expected, maybe twenty-five. Freya always dated older men. “Did you ask?”
“What?”
“When my parents handed you a check for $800,000, did you ask where it came from? Did you ask what they’d be living on? Did you ask if they had other children?”
He has the decency to flush. “They said they wanted the best for Freya.”
“And you never wondered why her adopted sister wasn’t at the engagement party? The wedding planning sessions? The venue tours?”
Elizabeth intervenes. “Miss Sterling, we understand you’re angry—”
“You don’t understand anything. I’m dying. Right now. My kidneys are failing, and the money that could save my life bought your son’s fiancée a diamond necklace and a four-tier cake.”
The room goes silent. Marcus places a folder on the table. “Our demands are simple. The Sterlings will pay the $800,000 directly to Mercy General Hospital to establish a trust for Grace’s transplant and related medical care. They’ll also pay $200,000 in damages for their negligence in accepting stolen funds. Total: $1 million.”
Richard doesn’t blink. “That’s extortion.”
“It’s restitution,” Marcus counters. “Your family benefited from a crime. Under state law, you can be held liable for knowingly receiving stolen property. The investigator’s report proves you had actual knowledge before the wedding. You could have stopped it. You didn’t.”
Elizabeth touches her husband’s arm. “Richard.”
He shakes her off. “We did nothing wrong.”
“Then we’ll see you in court,” Marcus says, standing. “Along with the Sterlings’ name in every headline. ‘Prominent Family Profits from Dying Woman’s Trust Fund.’ I think the Financial Review would be very interested.”
I’m watching James, not his parents. He’s staring at the table, his knuckles white. There’s something he’s not saying.
“What is it?” I ask him directly.
He looks up, surprised. “What?”
“You’re holding something back. What is it?”
Marcus gives me a warning look, but I ignore it. James glances at his parents, then back at me. “Freya knew.”
Richard explodes. “James!”
“She knew the money was yours. She told me her parents were ‘helping out’ because you’d been irresponsible with your savings. She said you’d gambled
it away.”
The room spins. “She told you I was a gambler?”
“She showed me fake bank statements. Your name on them, showing withdrawals at casinos. I didn’t… I didn’t look that closely. I wanted to believe her.”
Elizabeth has gone pale. “James, are you certain?”
“I have the documents. She gave them to me three months ago, when I asked why you—” he gestures at me “—weren’t involved in the wedding planning. She said you had problems. That the family was protecting you.”
Marcus is already writing notes. “We’ll need those documents, James. And your testimony.”
“You’ll have them.” He looks at me directly for the first time. “I’m sorry. I should have asked more questions. I should have reached out to you
directly.”
It’s too little, too late, but I see genuine remorse in his face. More than I’ve
ever seen in my own mother’s
eyes.
Richard Sterling stands abruptly. “This meeting is over. We’ll review your demands with our attorneys.”
“You have forty-eight hours,” Marcus says. “Then we file.”
I’m halfway to the door when Elizabeth stops me. “Miss Sterling”
I turn. She’s holding a business card. “This is Dr. Morrison. He’s a nephrologist at Mercy General. I called him this morning. He’s agreed to see you tomorrow, at no charge. And if… if we come to an agreement, we have a philanthropic foundation. We can help with your medical expenses.”
I take the card without touching her fingers. “You want to help now?”
“We should have helped sooner.”
I walk out without answering. In the elevator, Marcus is already on his phone, dictating notes about James’s testimony. “This changes everything. If we can prove Freya knowingly participated in the fraud, we can go after her directly. And if her fiancé testifies…”
“He won’t,” I say. “His parents will pressure him. They’ll tell him it’s family
loyalty.”
“We’ll see.”
The lobby doors open, and I step into the sunlight. My phone buzzes. It’s a text from an unknown number, but I recognize the area code. Freya.
“You ruined my life.”
I stare at the words for a minute before typing back. “You ruined mine first.”
Her reply is instant. “You’re going to die alone.”
“At least I’ll die honest.”
I block the number and look up at Marcus. “What’s next?”
“We wait. They’ll either pay or they won’t. In the meantime, I’m filing a
motion to freeze your parents’ assets. And I’m issuing a subpoena for Freya’s bank records. If she transferred any of that money to her personal accounts,
we can trace it.”
“She probably spent it already.”
“Then she’ll have to answer for that too.”
He drops me at Lena’s building. Inside the apartment, I collapse on the
couch and check my fundraising page. We’re at $47,000. The comments section is full of strangers calling me brave, calling my family monsters, sharing their own stories of betrayal.
One comment stands out: “My sister did this to me. Took my cancer
treatment money for a down payment on a house. I cut her off three years ago. Best decision I ever made. Stay strong, Grace.”
I read it three times. Then I pull up a new tab and search for something I should have looked up days ago.
“How to change your emergency contact information.”
The hospital still has my mother listed. Wesley is second. I log into the
patient portal and delete my mother’s name. Wesley’s stays. I add Lena as
third.
Small steps. Small acts of taking back control.
My phone rings, and I almost ignore it. But the caller ID shows MERCY
GENERAL HOSPITAL. My heart stops. It’s probably just billing. Or maybe it’s about Dad.
I answer anyway. “Hello?”
“Is this Grace Sterling?” A woman’s voice, professional but warm.
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Morrison’s office. Mrs. Sterling-Elizabeth Sterling-called about
you. Dr. Morrison would like to see you tomorrow at nine AM. He has a slot
for a new patient consultation.”
I should say no. I should tell them I don’t need the Sterlings’ charity.
But I have $47,000 in crowdfunding and a lawyer who’s working miracles. I
have a disease that’s killing me. I can’t afford pride.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
“Excellent. We’ll see you then.”
I hang up and stare at the ceiling. Freya’s wedding is off. My parents are panicking. The Sterlings are offering help. My fundraiser is climbing.
The world is shifting beneath my feet, and I’m not sure which way is stable
ground anymore.
But for the first time, I’m not the only one doing the pushing. The people who took from me are finally facing consequences. The people who have power are finally seeing the cost of their indifference.
And I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning, paid for by the family that almost profited from my death.
I should feel grateful. I should feel victorious.
Instead, I just feel tired. Deep in my bones tired. The kind of tired that
comes from fighting a battle you never wanted to fight against people who were supposed to be your army.
I close my laptop and pull the blanket around me. Lena will be home soon.
We’ll order takeout, and she’ll tell me about the property she showed, and
for a few hours I’ll pretend I’m just a normal woman on a normal couch living a normal life.
But the phone on the cushion next to me feels like it weighs a thousand
pounds. Because I know that before this is over, I’ll have to answer it again.
I’ll have to hear my mother’s voice, or my father’s, or Freya’s.
I’ll have to decide whether to let them back in or lock the door forever.
That’s a decision for tomorrow. For now, I let my eyes close and my
breathing slow. The dialysis center can wait. The fundraiser can climb without me watching. The Sterlings can decide whether their reputation is worth a million dollars.
Right now, I just need to sleep. To rest. To remember what it feels like to not be at war.
The hospital calls at six in the morning. I’m already awake, sitting at Lena’s kitchen table with my laptop and a cup of coffee that’s gone cold. The
surgeon’s voice is clipped and professional.
“Miss Sterling, we have a potential donor match. It’s preliminary—the donor family just consented, and we’re running compatibility tests now. But your blood type and tissue markers are a strong fit.”
My spoon clatters against the mug. “What?”
“A young woman, car accident, declared brain dead early this morning. Her family authorized organ donation. If you can get here within two hours, we can run final tests.”
I calculate quickly. Lena’s asleep. A taxi would cost money I don’t have. The subway takes an hour.
“I’ll be there,” I say, already standing. My body protests-ankles swollen, back aching, head fuzzy from the toxin buildup—but I grab my coat.
Lena stumbles out of her bedroom as I’m calling a rideshare. “Grace? What’s wrong?”
“Possible donor. I have to go.”
She’s instantly awake, pulling on boots and a sweatshirt. “I’m driving you.”
“You have work—”
“I can be late.” She grabs her keys and pushes me toward the door. “Come
on.”
We make it to Mercy General in forty minutes, Lena weaving through early morning traffic like she’s in an action movie. I’m checked in at the transplant center by seven. They take blood, run tests, scan my chest. I sit in a room with a television showing morning news and try not to hope.
A transplant coordinator finds me at eight-thirty. Her face is kind but neutral, the face of someone who’s delivered too much bad news.
“Your antibody levels are elevated from the infection last month,” she says gently. “There’s a risk of rejection. We need to reduce those levels before we can proceed. It’ll take three days of treatment.”
My heart sinks. “The donor—”
“We have a backup recipient ready. If your treatment isn’t successful, they’ll receive the kidney.”
I nod because there’s nothing else to do. She pats my hand and leaves me alone. Lena is in the waiting area, and I can’t face her yet. I pull out my phone and scroll through notifications instead.
My fundraiser is at $89,000. Ninety. Ninety-one. The numbers keep climbing as I watch, donations appearing every few seconds. Someone shared it on a morning news show’s social media page. It’s gone viral.
There’s an email from Marcus, sent at five AM. “Motion to freeze assets granted. Parents’ accounts locked as of 8 AM today. The hearing is next week.”
And another email, this one from an address I don’t recognize. The subject line: “I’m sorry. – J”
James Sterling. I open it.
“Grace, I attached the documents Freya gave me. They look real, but they’re not. I called my bank manager friend-he says the formatting is wrong, the routing numbers don’t match. She forged them. I’m forwarding everything to your attorney. I’m also going to testify if needed. I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but I wanted you to know. – James”
There are three attachments. Bank statements showing withdrawals from casinos. Overdraft notices. A letter from a fictional credit counselor.
All in my name. All fake.
I forward it to Marcus without reading the details. My phone rings thirty seconds later.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m at the hospital. Possible donor, but I need treatment first.”
“Good, that’s good. About James’s email-this is huge. If we can prove Freya created fraudulent documents, that’s not just civil. That’s criminal. Wire
fraud, identity theft.”
“I know.”
“Your parents are going to claim they didn’t know.”
“Do you think they knew?”
Marcus is quiet for a moment. “I think your mother would believe anything Freya told her. I think your father is smarter than that, but greed makes
people stupid.”
“What happens now?”
“Now we amend our complaint. We add fraud charges against Freya. We subpoena the casino records. We prove the documents are fake.”
I’m so tired. The chair is uncomfortable, and my whole body feels like it’s filled with wet sand. “And the Sterlings?”
“They’re quiet. I think they’re waiting to see if we have a criminal case. If Freya gets charged, they’ll have moral high ground to cooperate fully.”
“I don’t care about moral high ground. I care about the kidney.”
“I know. Focus on that. Let me handle the rest.”
I hang up and rest my head against the wall. The transplant coordinator was right about the treatment-they start me on plasma exchange that afternoon. It takes four hours, and I watch my blood leave my body through one tube and return through another. Lena sits with me, reading a magazine while machines whir and beep.
My phone stays quiet. No calls from my mother, even though her accounts are frozen and she must be panicking. No messages from Freya, though I’m sure she’s screaming into her pillow or at her lawyer or at James.
Just the steady rhythm of donations rolling in. $102,000. $103,000. $104,000.
By the second day of treatment, I’m at $156,000. Marcus calls with an update. “Your parents filed an emergency motion to lift the freeze. Judge
denied it. They’re claiming hardship.”
“Are they?”
“Hardship they caused. The judge wasn’t sympathetic. He mentioned something about ‘reaping what you sow’ in his denial.”
“Good.”
“There’s something else. Wesley called me.”
Every muscle in my body locks up. “What?”
“He’s been staying with a friend, but he’s been paying your medical bills
directly. The hospital shows a credit balance on your account-from an anonymous donor. Ten thousand dollars. It appeared the day after you checked out.”
My breath catches. “Wesley did that?”
“He won’t confirm, but the timing is suspicious. He’s also been calling them every day to check on donor matches. This one-the kidney you’re waiting for-he was the one who pushed them to call you first.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He said he was giving you space to be angry. He said you needed to fight
your family without worrying about him.”
The machine next to me beeps. Lena looks up, concerned. I wave her off.
“Where is he now?”
“Working. He took a job with a construction company-night shifts, pays better. He’s saving everything for your medical fund.”
I think about the $20,000 in the bank card. The retainer he paid. The truck
he sold. The anonymous donation. The calls to the transplant center.
Wesley never left. He just went to war a different way.
“Grace,” Marcus says gently, “the man sold his truck, took a night job, and
has been paying your bills in secret while letting you believe he abandoned
you. What are you going to do about that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Figure it out. Because when this is over-when you have your transplant
and your money and your health-you’re going to have to decide if you want
a husband or a martyr.”
He hangs up, leaving me with that thought.
The third day of treatment is Friday. I’m exhausted, my arms are bruised
from needles, and I want to sleep for a week. But the final antibody test comes back at four PM.
“You’re cleared,” the coordinator says, and her smile is real this time. “We
can proceed. The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning, six AM.”
Lena hugs me so hard I can’t breathe. I call Marcus, who says he’ll be there. I don’t call my parents. I don’t call Freya.
I do call Wesley.
It rings three times, and for a moment I think he’ll let it go to voicemail.
Then he picks up.
“Grace? Are you okay?”
“I have a kidney. Surgery tomorrow.”
The silence stretches so long I check to see if the call dropped. “Wesley?”
“I’m here.” His voice is rough. “You’re getting the transplant?”
“Anonymous donor. Young woman. Car accident.”
“Jesus.”
“Marcus told me. About the bills. The calls. The job.”
Another silence. “I didn’t want you to feel obligated.”
“I feel a lot of things. Obligated isn’t one of them.”
I hear him exhale, shaky. “Do you want me to come to the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“I can be there by nine. I’m working until eight, but I can—”
“Wesley.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just… just get better.”
I hang up and look at Lena. She’s smiling. “He never left, did he?”
“No. He just let me believe he did so I’d fight harder.”
“Smart man.”
“Infuriating man.”
“That’s usually the same thing.”
That night, I sleep in a hospital room instead of Lena’s couch. The nurses
wake me every two hours to check vitals, but I don’t mind. Each time they
come in, I ask them to confirm the surgery is still on.
“Still on,” they say. “Six AM.”
At five-thirty, they give me something to relax. My vision blurs at the edges.
The ceiling tiles become watercolor smudges. A nurse asks me to count
backwards from ten.
“Ten, nine, eight…”
I think about Wesley, working night shifts to pay my bills. About Marcus,
filing motions at five AM. About Lena, sleeping in a chair in the waiting room. About James Sterling, choosing truth over family loyalty.
“Seven, six…”
I think about my mother, wherever she is, with her frozen accounts and her
ruined wedding plans and her husband in the ICU.
“Five, four…”
I think about Freya, who forged documents and told lies and took
everything, only to end up with nothing.
“Three, two…”
I think about the woman whose kidney I’m about to receive. The young
woman who died this week. Who gave me life when everyone who was
supposed to protect me tried to take it away.
“One.”
Darkness, peaceful and complete.
And somewhere in the void, I realize I’m not angry anymore. I’m just ready
to live.
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the pain. It’s a low, deep ache in my abdomen, like someone parked a car on my lower body. The second thing is the tube in my nose. The third is Wesley, asleep in a chair by the window, his head tilted at an angle that can’t be comfortable.
I try to say his name, but my throat is full of sand. A machine beeps next to me, rhythmic and steady. My new kidney, working.
A nurse appears, smiling. “Welcome back, Grace. You did great.”
Wesley jerks awake at the sound of her voice. His eyes find mine, and the relief there is so raw it hurts to look at. “You’re awake.”
I nod, and even that small motion exhausts me. The nurse checks my vitals, adjusts something on my IV, and tells me to rest. “The doctor will be by soon. Everything looks perfect.”
When she leaves, Wesley moves his chair closer. He’s wearing a construction company t-shirt and jeans, his hands callused in a way they weren’t three weeks ago. “Don’t talk. Just listen.”
I nod again.
“The surgeon said it went flawlessly. Your body accepted the kidney immediately. No signs of rejection.”
His voice cracks on the last word. He scrubs a hand over his face, and I see the exhaustion there, the gauntness around his eyes.
“You sold your truck,” I whisper.
“Worth it.”
“You took a night job.”
“Better pay.”
Π
“You paid my bills.”
He leans forward, takes my hand carefully, avoiding the IV. “I couldn’t sit in that hospital anymore. I couldn’t watch you get sicker while your family—” He stops, swallows. “But I couldn’t leave either. So I made myself useful where I could.”
I squeeze his fingers. They’re warm. Real. “The divorce papers—”
“Are still unsigned. I have them if you still want to sign.”
“I don’t.”
The smile that spreads across his face is small and tired, but it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in months. “Good.”
The doctor comes in then, all business and good news. Kidney function is excellent. No signs of rejection. I’ll be in the hospital for a week, then home with restrictions. Weekly checkups, then monthly. Anti-rejection meds for life, but that’s a small price.
“You’ve been given a second chance,” he says, patting my foot through the blanket. “Make it count.”
I sleep through most of the next two days. When I’m awake, Wesley is there, or Lena, or Marcus. They rotate like a tag team, making sure I’m never alone. Lena brings me soup from a place that specializes in low-sodium meals for transplant patients. Marcus brings legal documents and updates.
“Your parents are claiming the money was a gift,” he says on day three. “They’re saying you voluntarily transferred it to the joint account years ago, making it a family asset.”
I stare at him from my hospital bed. “That’s not true.”
“I know. We have your original account paperwork showing the transfer was for emergency use only, with the understanding it remained your property. Your mother signed it.”
He shows me the document, and there it is—her signature next to mine, both of us younger, both of us believing we were on the same side.
“The problem,” Marcus continues, “is that your father never signed. He’s claiming he had no knowledge of the arrangement.”
“That’s ridiculous. He deposited money into that account after I transferred it. He paid bills from it.”
“We’ll need proof.”
I close my eyes, thinking. “The bank statements. They show both names on the checks. Dad wrote checks for the mortgage, for his business taxes. Freya’s car payment went through that account.”
Marcus makes a note. “I’ll subpoena those records. If we can show he actively used the account, his claim falls apart.”
I’m discharged on a Tuesday. Wesley brings clothes that actually fit-sweatpants and t-shirts he bought new. Lena waits with the car, and they help me down the hospital steps like I’m ancient and fragile.
“Where to?” Lena asks.
“Home,” I say, and give her our address. Wesley and I’s address. The apartment we shared for three years.
He freezes halfway into the car. “Grace, I moved out. It’s just empty rooms
now.”
“Take me there anyway.”
The apartment is exactly as I remember it, minus the furniture. Wesley sold most of it to pay the retainer. But my key still works, and when I walk in, I can smell the ghost of our life here. Coconut candles. His cologne. The vanilla scent of the laundry detergent we both liked.
“I kept the bed,” Wesley says quietly. “It’s in the bedroom.”
I walk through the empty living room, past the kitchen where we used to
cook together on Sundays, to the bedroom. Our bed is there, the navy comforter still on it. I sit on the edge, and the mattress feels familiar
beneath me.
“Why did you keep it?” I ask.
He leans against the doorway, arms crossed. “I was going to move it into my new place. But it wouldn’t have fit. The bedroom was too small.”
“So you got a smaller apartment.”
“I got what I could afford. After paying your bills.”
I look around the bare room. “This place is expensive. You could have sublet
- Saved money.”
“I couldn’t give it up. It was the last thing we built together.”
I pat the bed next to me. He crosses the room slowly, sits carefully, like I’m
made of glass. “I should have told you,” he says. “About the job, the bills, all of
it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because you needed to fight them on your own terms. If I’d stayed, you’d have been focused on us. On saving our marriage. I needed you to save yourself first.”
I turn to look at him. His face is thinner, older. But his eyes are the same. The same man who sat in hospital rooms for three years, who held my hand during dialysis, who learned to give me injections when I was too weak to do
it myself.
“Marcus said I have to decide if I want a husband or a martyr,” I say.
Wesley’s smile is sad. “What do you want?”
“I want my husband back. But I want a partner, not a savior.”
“I can do partner.”
“Can you let me fight my own battles?”
“I can stand beside you while you fight them.”
It’s not perfect. It’s not the romantic reunion from movies. It’s two exhausted, broken people trying to figure out how to rebuild something
stronger than what they had before.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” he echoes.
We sit in our empty apartment, on our bed, and for the first time since this
nightmare began, I feel like I’m home.
Marcus calls that evening. “We have a problem. Your father checked himself
out of the ICU this morning. Against medical advice.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s apparently well enough to meet with his attorney. They’re countersuing you for defamation. Claiming you’re making false accusations to extort money.”
I laugh, and it doesn’t hurt my incision. “Let them. We have proof.”
“We do. But it’s going to get ugly. They’re dragging your medical history into
it, implying you’re not competent to manage your own finances. They’re claiming emotional distress caused your father’s heart attack.”
“He had chest pains because he got caught.”
“I know. But we need to be prepared for a fight. This isn’t going to settle
quickly.”
“How long?”
“Six months. Maybe a year.”
I look at Wesley, who’s listening to my side of the conversation. “I have time
now,” I say. “That’s what matters.”
Marcus is quiet for a moment. “You know they’re going to offer a settlement
eventually. When they realize they can’t win.”
“I don’t want their money anymore.”
“Grace=”
“I want justice. I want them to admit what they did. I want Freya charged
with fraud. I want my father to look me in the eye and say he was wrong.”
“Justice is expensive.”
“So is betrayal. I can afford one. I’ve already paid for the other.”
I hang up and tell Wesley what Marcus said. He listens, then pulls me against
him, careful of my incision. “We’ll fight them. However long it takes.”
I wake up in the middle of the night, disoriented in the familiar-yet-unfamiliar bedroom. Wesley is asleep next to me, his breathing
steady. I slip out of bed and walk to the living room, where my laptop still
sits on the floor.
My crowdfunding page shows $213,000. I read through the comments, hundreds of them now, strangers offering support, sharing similar stories, calling me brave.
I’m not brave. I’m just too stubborn to die.
There’s an email from James Sterling. Sent at midnight. “Freya tried to
access
my bank account today. She has my old debit card from when we were engaged. She claimed it was hers, that I’d given it to her as a gift. The
bank called me to verify. I told them to freeze it and call the police. She’s being questioned tomorrow. I thought you should know.”
I forward it to Marcus. It’s after one AM, but he replies immediately. “This is good for our case. Shows pattern of behavior. We’ll use it.”
I close the laptop and sit in the dark, looking out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, my parents are in a too-small apartment, their accounts frozen, their adopted daughter in police custody, their biological daughter recovering from surgery they tried to prevent.
Somewhere, Freya is sitting in an interrogation room, realizing that taking everything doesn’t mean you get to keep it.
And here I am, in the apartment I built with a man who never left, with a
new kidney and $213,000 in donations and a lawyer who texts me at one in
the morning.
I didn’t win. The people who love me won it for me. That’s a different kind of victory. One I’m still learning how to accept.
