The last time we spoke, she had accused me of humiliating the family.
Now she stood at my door as if that wound didn’t exist.
Without waiting for permission, they walked past me into the apartment.
I slowly closed the door.
They sat on my couch—the one I had purchased myself, inside the living room I had built from my own hard work and sleepless nights.
I stayed standing.
“Clare,” my father began, shifting into the polished professional tone he used in meetings. “Ashley’s run into some setbacks.”
Setbacks.
That was the word he chose.
“Her hospital internship had been terminated. Staff cuts,” my mother said curtly. “And as for her tuition, the remaining balance hasn’t been paid. If that doesn’t get resolved soon, Ashley might have to leave the program.”
“And?” I asked flatly.
My mother’s response came immediately.
“We need your help.”
There it was.
No apology.
No remorse.
Just another request.
“Help?” I echoed.
“Clare, you understand how critical this is?” my father said. “If she falls behind now, she could lose everything.”
“She?” I asked quietly. “Or you?”
My mother’s eyes hardened.
“Don’t be petty,” she hissed.
A dry laugh escaped me.
“I gave up years of my life for this family. Paid bills when the lights went out. Bought Ashley’s textbooks. Covered her rent, her groceries. I sacrificed so she could have it all. And the one time, just once, I asked for something back, you told me I disgraced you.”
“We were angry,” my father barked. “You were disrespectful.”
I stepped closer.
My heels struck the floor sharply.
