When Dad became quiet, you knew something had already been decided.
He turned toward me.
“Laya.”
I couldn’t look at him.
“You earn three thousand dollars a month.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“Why is your child hungry?”
The question hit harder than an accusation.
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
I wanted to tell him about rent.
About daycare.
About groceries.
About the rising cost of everything.
About the unexpected bills.
About how my husband had said we were going through a temporary rough patch.
About how he promised things would get better once his business started making money.
But none of those explanations could make that refrigerator look less empty.
Dad looked past me toward the hallway.
Ben was sitting on the floor, making his stuffed fox jump over a toy truck.
Then Dad looked back at me.
“Where is your money going?”
Before I could answer, my husband walked into the kitchen.
