“So,” he said, staring directly at my husband, “your mother gets taken care of… and your son doesn’t.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a boundary being drawn.
My husband shrugged.
“My mom sacrificed everything raising me. Medical bills aren’t cheap. The kid will survive. People here overreact about food anyway.”
My father’s jaw tightened.
This was the same man who had once worked double shifts at a warehouse, gone to night classes afterward, and still made sure there was always a snack waiting inside my school backpack.
He never needed to shout to make himself understood.
Instead, he turned toward me.
“Did you know he was moving your paycheck?” he asked.
My throat burned.
“No. He changed the email on our joint account. I only found out when my card got declined at the store. I was trying to buy milk.”
