“For my own sister?”
There it was again.
Family helps family.
Only now the slogan sounded different because the flow of help had stopped moving toward her.
I leaned back.
“You told everyone I shouldn’t think paying bills makes me important.
I agree.
So from now on, your bills won’t involve me.”
“That is so petty.”
“No.
Petty would be canceling something you need tonight just to scare you.
I’m not doing that.
I’m giving you notice, ending future support, and asking you to repay money you already agreed was a loan.”
Rachel looked toward Mom.
“Are you seriously going to let her do this?”
Mom’s head jerked back.
The question exposed more than Rachel intended.
Let me.
As if my mother had authority over my salary.
As if everyone sitting there had voted on what percentage of my work belonged to them.
Mom looked at me for several seconds.
Then she surprised both of us.
“She doesn’t need my permission.”
Rachel blinked.
Dad finally turned away from the grill.
“No,” he said.
“She doesn’t.”
Rachel stared at them.
“You were laughing five minutes ago.”
Dad rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yeah.”
The admission was quiet.
He looked at me.
“I shouldn’t have.”
Mom’s eyes filled, but she didn’t make a show of it.
“Neither should I.”
Rachel threw her hands up.
“Oh, unbelievable.
Now everybody is afraid of Stacy because she has a spreadsheet.”
“It isn’t a spreadsheet,” I said.
She glared at me.
I opened the folder again.
The second section contained bank statements and receipts I had printed while reviewing the previous twelve months.
Not because I intended to prosecute my family around a folding table.
Because I had finally needed to know the number.
I had avoided totaling it for months.
Individual payments were easy to excuse.
Three hundred here.
Eight hundred there.
A prescription.
A repair.
A utility bill.
A rent shortage.
Together, they told a different story.
Dad saw the page and swallowed.
“How much?” he asked.
