I had felt proud afterward.
Useful.
Like a good daughter.
“Did you know she was asking me?” I asked.
My father closed his eyes for a moment.
“Not at first.”
That answer hurt more than I expected because it meant there was another answer coming.
“When did you find out?”
“A few years ago.”
I stared at him.
“A few years?”
His face tightened with shame.
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing?”
My mother stepped forward.
“Because it was none of his business what two sisters did for each other.”
I turned toward her.
“Two sisters?”
My voice stayed low.
“Penny almost never asked me directly.
You did.”
She folded her arms.
“Because Penny was embarrassed.”
“Penny sent me three messages this week calling me selfish because I wouldn’t buy gaming consoles.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It is exactly the point.”
Hazel stirred again, and I stopped myself before my voice rose.
I looked back at my father.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he reached toward the folder.
“There’s another section.”
I turned past the bank statements.
Behind them were printed copies of messages.
My mother’s messages.
Some were to my father.
I read one dated nearly three years earlier.
She already sent the money.
Stop making this harder than it needs to be.
Another one said:
She can afford it.
Penny can’t.
Another:
If you tell her to stop helping, you’ll be the reason the family falls apart.
I stopped reading.
The room felt suddenly too small.
My father spoke carefully.
“I confronted your mother when I realized how much she had been asking from you.
I told her it needed to stop.”
My mother shook her head.
“You told me not to ask for as much.”
“I told you not to ask at all.”
“You knew Penny needed help.”
“I knew Penny had learned that someone else would always solve the problem.”
That sentence landed hard because it was the same conclusion I had reached while Hazel slept against my chest in the maternity ward.
I had spent years believing I was helping my family.
