Chapter 5
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
First, Diane destroyed Maya's costume.
Then she tried to manipulate the judging.
Now someone was accusing my daughter of stealing her own grandmother's design.
It wasn't just cruel.
It was calculated.
Principal Bennett placed the complaint in front of us.
I read it twice.
The message claimed that the original Wings of Tomorrow design belonged to a collection of drawings that Diane had inherited from our mother.
According to the complaint, Maya had used those designs without permission.
I stared at the words.
"This is ridiculous."
Maya looked terrified.
"Mom, Grandma gave me that sketchbook."
"I know, sweetheart."
"She wrote my name inside it."
"I know."
Jordan leaned forward.
"Then we have proof."
I turned toward him.
"What?"
"The dedication."
He looked at Maya.
"Remember what Mom wrote?"
Maya nodded quickly.
"To my little artist, Maya. May your hands always create what your heart imagines."
I felt tears sting my eyes.
I remembered our mother's handwriting.
The way she made the first letter of every name curl like a ribbon.
The little heart she drew beneath her signature.
"Where's the sketchbook?" I asked.
Maya swallowed.
"At home, in my sewing room."
Jordan grabbed his keys.
"I'll get it."
Principal Bennett raised a hand.
"Before you leave, I need to explain something."
We turned.
"The complaint has been referred to the competition's independent review committee. It doesn't automatically disqualify Maya."
I exhaled.
"Then she can still participate?"
"Potentially, yes. But we need to verify the ownership claim."
I nodded.
"Then we will."
Jordan left immediately.
I called our neighbor, Mrs. Patterson, and asked her to let him into the house if needed.
Then I turned to Maya.
"We're not giving up."
She looked at the ruined costume.
"I know."
Her voice was still shaky.
But there was determination in it now.
Principal Bennett arranged a private workroom.
Several teachers offered supplies.
The art department provided fabric scraps, metallic paint, thread, and a spare sewing machine.
One teacher brought a box of decorative feathers.
Another found a roll of black mesh.
I was overwhelmed.
People who barely knew my daughter were stepping forward to help.
Not because they pitied her.
Because they believed in her.
Maya laid the damaged costume across a large table.
She studied it carefully.
Then she picked up a pair of small scissors.
For one second, her hand trembled.
I watched her face.
She had just been attacked with scissors.
Now she was holding another pair.
I stepped closer.
"You don't have to do this."
She looked at me.
"Yes, I do."
Then she began cutting.
Not randomly.
Not desperately.
With purpose.
She removed the worst damaged sections.
She separated the feathers that could still be used.
She turned the torn edges into jagged shapes.
Within fifteen minutes, the costume no longer looked like something that had been destroyed.
It looked like something being transformed.
I helped thread needles.
A teacher stitched torn seams.
Another prepared lightweight shoulder supports.
But Maya directed everything.
"This piece goes here."
"Can we make that edge look burned?"
"I need the feathers to rise from the shoulders."
Her voice grew stronger with every instruction.
I watched my daughter return to herself.
And I realized Diane had made a terrible mistake.
She believed destroying Maya's costume would destroy Maya.
But Maya's talent had never lived inside the fabric.
It lived inside her.
Forty minutes later, Jordan returned.
He was holding the sketchbook.
And he wasn't alone.
An elderly woman walked beside him.
She wore a lavender blouse and carried a leather handbag.
I recognized her immediately.
"Mrs. Ruth?"
Ruth Henderson had been our mother's closest friend.
They had worked together for more than twenty years.
She hugged me.
"Oh, Nia, sweetheart."
I began crying.
"I didn't know Jordan called you."
"He told me what happened."
She looked at Maya.
"My goodness."
Maya rushed into her arms.
Mrs. Ruth held her tightly.
"Your grandmother would be so proud of you."
Maya's voice broke.
"They said I stole her design."
Mrs. Ruth pulled back.
"Then let's correct that nonsense."
She opened her handbag.
Inside was an old photograph.
It showed our mother sitting beside twelve-year-old Maya.
Between them lay the original phoenix drawing.
On the back, our mother had written the date.
And a message.
"Maya's first phoenix design. Created together on her twelfth birthday."
I stared at the picture.
Then at Mrs. Ruth.
"How did you get this?"
She smiled.
"Your mother sent it to me years ago. She was so proud."
My knees nearly weakened.
It was more than proof.
It was a piece of Mom we hadn't known still existed.
Maya took the photograph carefully.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
"Grandma kept it."
Mrs. Ruth nodded.
"And she talked about you constantly."
Principal Bennett examined the sketchbook and photograph.
He documented them for the review committee.
The evidence clearly supported Maya's account of how she obtained the design.
But the afternoon wasn't finished.
A staff member entered the room carrying a sealed envelope.
"Mrs. Carter, this was delivered for you."
I frowned.
"From whom?"
"The front office said it came from Mrs. Whitmore."
Diane.
My stomach tightened.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
I recognized my sister's handwriting.
"Nia,
You think you know everything about Mom's designs.
You don't.
If Maya continues using that sketchbook, I'll make sure the truth about our mother's will becomes public.
You have one hour to withdraw her from the competition.
Otherwise, everyone will learn what you and Jordan have been hiding.
Diane."
I stared at the letter.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Jordan saw my face.
"What is it?"
I handed him the paper.
He read it.
Then his expression changed.
"What truth?"
I shook my head.
"I don't know."
Mrs. Ruth looked troubled.
"May I see that?"
I passed her the letter.
She read it slowly.
Then she closed her eyes.
"Oh, Eleanor."
My heart began pounding.
"Mrs. Ruth?"
She looked at me.
"There is something your mother told me before she died."
I felt the room tilt.
"What?"
She glanced toward Maya.
Then back at me.
"Your sister has been lying about your mother's inheritance."
I stared at her.
And suddenly, I understood that this competition had uncovered something much bigger than jealousy.
May you like
Diane wasn't only afraid Maya would win.
She was afraid we would discover what she had taken from our family.
