“Well,” she says gently, “all couples fight. Your dad and I haven’t made it a week without one.”
“Two and ahalfweeks,” Dad corrects, holding up two fingers. “Although I was on a fishing trip for ten days of that, but I say it still counts.” He shrugs.
I crack a smile, even if it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mom asks, setting a grilled cheese and tomato soup in front of me like I’m ten again, home sick from school.
“I don’t really want to, but it’s not something I feel like hiding either.” I pick up half the sandwich and take a bite. “Sam gave his sister some money. A lot of money. So she can open a salon.”
I don't say $75,000. My parents and I have always spoken about money differently—they feel it, I count it—and I know what that number would do to this kitchen table.
Mom blinks. “Didn’t she just finish beauty school?”
“Yep,” I say flatly, washing the bite down with tea.
“Well … that was … generous of him,” she says after a pause, trying to stay neutral.
“He did it without asking me.”
Mom’s face falters. “Oh.” She pauses and clears her throat. “Look, honey,” she tries, “I know you’ve given your brother money before. I doubt you ran those amounts by Sam every time.”
I freeze for a second. “Those were small amounts. A couple hundred dollars here and there. And they were from my personal account, not our shared savings.”
“Still,” she says delicately, “I’m just saying, maybe Sam was trying to help someone he loves. You’ve done the same. And your version of small and his might be different. You know you two come from different … backgrounds."
Mom has always liked Sam. Still, she tries to stay neutral about our different upbringings.
“Sure, but I don’t clean out our life savings in the process.”
Mom doesn’t answer. But I can see the concerned look she’s giving me.
“What?” I ask, not bothering to keep the irritation out of my voice.
She hesitates. “You can be a little … intense when it comes to money.”
“Intense?”
“You’re so smart, Becca,” she says gently. “So driven. But sometimes, I think you expect everyone else to operate the same way you do.”
I set my sandwich down. “So I’m judgmental? Is that what you’re saying?”
My dad jumps in before she can answer. “Sweetheart, nobody’s judging you. We’re proud of you,damnproud. You’ve made a life no one in our family could have ever dreamed of. But not everyone’s wired like you. You make a plan and stick to it like it’s gospel. Some people …” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Some people are still figuring it out.”
I stare down at my bowl. The soup’s cooling fast.
“I’m not mad that Holly needed help,” I say quietly. “I’m mad he handed her our future without even a conversation. Like I didn’t matter.”
My mom reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You do matter. And you’ve always been the one looking five steps ahead. But sometimes the people we love … they trip over their own feet.”
We don’t say much after that. I munch on my grilled cheese and soup quietly. Dad flips the TV to Wheel of Fortune. He yells out wrong answers with lots of confidence.
“‘A bag of pickles!’” he shouts, proud as can be.
“It’s ‘a back-up pitcher,’ honey,” Mom calls from the kitchen.
“Same thing!” he grumbles, then winks at me. “One of ‘em’s sour, one of ‘em throws heat.”
I laugh despite myself.
