My voice cracked, raw and ragged.
"Because I'm *drowning* in debt! Because my parents would rather throw a lavish banquet for a stranger than lend their own daughter a single cent!"
The words ripped out of me, each one a blade. "What choice do I have except working myself to death?" I thrust my hand out, palm up. "Give me the phone."
The outburst stunned Mom into silence. Aunt Lucy fumbled, snatching the phone from Mom's frozen grip and shoving it into my hand.
I dialed back immediately.
A brief, humiliating explanation. Then I hung up and planted my feet, waiting.
The woman on the electric scooter glanced between us—me, rigid with fury; Mom, pale and mute. She read the room. Without a word, she transferred me a thousand dollars and patted my shoulder. One pitying look at Mom, and she drove away.
Nothing needed to be said.
The silence said everything.
Mom's face burned crimson. Shame. *Finally.*
She stayed, hovering on the roadside until my ride arrived. But old habits die hard.
"Isabella, your priority right now is your studies. Once you finish your master's, you'll have your pick of—"
I pulled up my call log and shoved the screen in her face.
"I get at least a dozen debt collection calls a day." The numbers glowed, accusing. "Do you really think I can study with this noose around my neck?" I pocketed the phone. "I'm not asking for your help anymore. Just stop interfering with my work."
Her lips parted. Dry. Brittle. "Isabella... do you hate us?"
I looked her dead in the eye.
"I'm just disappointed."
She left in a daze, like she'd been slapped.
---
Not long after, Dad appeared on the local news.
Charlotte Fox was on screen, choking back tears, thanking him. Calling him her "second father."
Dad dabbed at his eyes, playing the benevolent mentor to perfection.
I watched with hollow eyes. Then I turned off the TV and threw myself back into the grind.
---
My last project paid out fifty thousand dollars. The noose loosened—just a little.
The cash injection was gasoline on a fire. I worked with renewed fervor. If I could have split every minute in two, I would have.
A few days later, a notification lit up my phone.
Mom had transferred eighty thousand dollars.
I stared at it for a long time.
*Pride says send it back. Reality says take it.*
I needed money. Desperately.
I accepted the transfer. Then I wrote a formal IOU and mailed it to her.
Her call came immediately.
"Isabella, that money is a gift. Keep it. There's no need for—"
"We need to keep the accounts clear." My voice was flat. "I will pay you back."
A sigh. She knew she couldn't win this one. So she pivoted.
"Charlotte feels terrible. She thinks she's the reason your relationship with your father is strained. She wants to apologize in person. Can you make time for a meal?"
Eighty thousand dollars sat in my account. The refusal died in my throat.
A transaction. Take the money, endure the dinner.
"Fine. Send me the time and address."
---
I rearranged my schedule and took a taxi to the restaurant.
But when I pushed open the private room door, my stomach dropped.
Dad sat at the head of the table, relaxed and authoritative. Beside him—Uncle Tyler. My second aunt.
My gaze cut to Mom.
She ducked her head, avoiding me, but her hand clamped around my wrist and dragged me to a chair.
"Sit," she whispered.
Silence descended like a wet blanket. The air thickened, suffocating.
Charlotte stood, raising her glass to break the tension.
"Isabella... the Professor helped me because he didn't want to hurt you, not because he favors me. The culprit here is me. I've let you down."
She lifted the wine to her lips.
Dad reached out and stopped her hand. Then he turned to me.
That look.
The familiar, crushing disappointment—the look one gives a piece of iron that refuses to become steel.
"Look how sensible Charlotte is," he said, his voice dripping with comparison. "Unlike you—throwing tantrums at the drop of a hat. We'll let it go this time. But in the future, you need to help Charlotte more. She's from a small town. She isn't used to city life."
