The Chicago Tribune ran the story on a Tuesday.
A headline about a quarter-million-dollar donation transforming public school resources. The photo showed the foundation director holding an oversized ceremonial check. In the corner, printed clearly:
In honor of educators everywhere, the Martin family.
I read the article three times over coffee.
The money would fund reading programs in twelve under-resourced schools, update classroom libraries, and provide technology grants for teachers who’d been buying supplies out of their own pockets for years.
An email came from the superintendent, thanking me on behalf of Chicago Public Schools.
I screenshot it and sent it to Ethan.
He responded immediately:
You deserve all of it.
At Lincoln Elementary, the news spread through the teacher’s lounge like wildfire.
Rachel hugged me in the hallway. “A quarter million,” she kept whispering like she couldn’t believe it. “Dalia, you’re a hero.”
I wasn’t a hero.
I was just a teacher who finally refused to be mocked.
But it felt good—deeply good—to see the Martin name attached to education instead of medicine.
To know my father would have to explain to his country club friends why the biggest public contribution in our family name went to ABCs.
The “simple” things.
The things that actually change lives.
Vivian called, and for once she didn’t sound like she’d won
Vivian called on Sunday afternoon.
I considered letting it go to voicemail.
Then I remembered the look on her face at the country club—rattled, rearranged—and I answered.
“Dalia,” she said.
No smirk. No sweetness sharpened into a blade.
“Can we talk?”
“I’m listening,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” Vivian blurted, fast. “For everything. For the ABC comments. For the jokes. For… for making you feel like you weren’t enough.”
I didn’t immediately forgive her. I didn’t rush to make it comfortable.
I let her sit in her own words.
“I was jealous,” she admitted, and she laughed bitterly. “How pathetic is that? I was jealous of you because you always seemed… content. Like you didn’t need anyone’s approval.”
I stared out my window at the city, at people walking dogs and carrying groceries, living lives that had nothing to do with country clubs.
“That’s what jealousy looked like to you?” I asked softly.
“I know,” Vivian said, voice thin. “It’s ridiculous. I was so busy chasing Dad’s praise that I couldn’t understand why you didn’t want it too.”
I took a slow breath.
“I hear you,” I said carefully. “And I appreciate you saying this. But I need to see change, not just hear about it. Actions matter more than apologies.”
“I understand,” she whispered. “I’ll prove it.”
We hung up with a door left open.
Not a warm reunion.
But possibility.
Monday morning and the letter Q
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