Mom’s expression shifted.
Dad answered this time.
“More help.”
“What kind?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters to me.”
Mom slapped one hand against the dresser.
“Fine.
She was struggling.
We had money sitting there.
You weren’t using it yet.
We intended to put it back.”
There it was.
Not an inquiry.
Not paperwork.
Not a misunderstanding.
They had looked at an education fund my grandmother created for me and decided unused meant available.
“When were you going to put back $18,240.16?”
Mom didn’t answer.
“Before tuition was due?”
Still nothing.
“Before I started State?”
Dad stared at the floor.
I understood then that there had never been a repayment plan.
There had only been confidence that I would absorb the loss.
Because I always had.
I was the child who worked more hours.
The child who didn’t complain.
The child who wore the old coat.
The child who was praised for needing less until eventually they convinced themselves I deserved less.
Mom’s voice softened again.
That frightened me more than the shouting.
“Honey, you can still go to college.
You have scholarships.
You can take loans.
Lots of people do.
Laurel has a baby coming.
This is bigger than what you want.”
I looked at the rubber-banded stack of scholarship envelopes on my desk.
“College isn’t something I want instead of something important.
It is important.”
“You’re eighteen.
You can work.”
“I do work.”
“Then you know how hard life is.”
“Yes.
That’s why I don’t understand why you’re making mine harder on purpose.”
Her face tightened again.
Dad stood.
“Enough.”
For one second I thought he meant me.
Then he turned toward Mom.
“She said no.
The account said no.
Drop it.”
Mom stared at him as though he’d betrayed her.
