She did not type the long reply that flashed through her mind with thirty-three years of receipts attached.
For one ugly second, she wanted to throw the phone so hard it cracked against the cabinet.
She wanted the sound of breaking glass to say what she had been trained not to say.
Instead, she breathed in slowly.
Her jaw clenched until her teeth hurt.
Then she opened her banking app.
She sent her father one dollar.
She wrote back two words.
Good luck.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Dad: You selfish little witch.
Dad: Mom is sick.
Dad: You owe this family.
That last sentence changed the temperature of the room.
Mallory looked at it for a long time.
You owe this family.
She thought of the empty chairs by the hospital window.
She thought of Carla’s face when she repeated what her parents had said.
