I am going home

“I brought your bank statements.” Mom walks inside my room and hands me my credit card and statements. At the end of the paper marks One-hundred twenty-five thousand dollars is in black ink as if it were any value.

Did twenty-three-year-old Selena actually make all of this money?

“What is this?” I approach, my eyes extracting. Am I seeing this right? “Mom, there’s a serious mistake here.” I lift the paper as if the internal printer had malfunctioned.

“Life insurance,” my mother explains and an idea pops into my mind and I look like someone who has an idea of ​​the century. “Why that face?”

“The face of someone who's going to do it right?” I speak like a little girl and with a thin voice. I slump down into the chair, holding my head, exhausted but mostly angry with myself

“Selena, what exactly are you going to do now?” my mother runs her hand over her head anxiously. She gets up from the bed and starts walking up and down several times in the room.

“Hunter went out with a bleached blon