I found the $2,800 I had wired Keaton when his truck was about to be repossessed.
The $5,000 I gave my parents during the pandemic because my father claimed his hours had been cut, though I later found photos of them in Key West from the same month.
The $1,300 I spent on my mother’s sixtieth birthday dinner, after which she told people the restaurant had been “a little low-class, but Arden tried.”
The total came to $26,740.
Documented.
Not guessed. Not emotional math. Actual transfers, checks, receipts.
I stared at the number until the porch lights clicked on.
For years, I had thought I was helping.
Now I understood I had been training them.
Every yes had taught them to expect another one.
Every swallowed insult had taught them my silence meant permission.
Every emergency they created had somehow become mine to solve.
At 10:16 p.m., my mother texted me privately.
“Your Father Says You Are Being Dramatic. I Told Him You Are Just Tired. Call Me Tomorrow And We Will Fix This.”
