Page 170 of Ruthless Court

Dad: You always did like figuring out why people did stupid things.

A laugh slips out.

Me: It’s a rich field.

Dad: Making friends?

Me: Two good roommates. Lila and Noor.

Dad: They treating you okay?

Me: They make fun of my glasses and steal my clothes.

Dad: Sounds healthy.

The tension loosens by half an inch.

I stare at his name above the messages.

Then type the thing I’ve been meaning to tell Mom.

Me: I’m going to send money home when I get paid. I picked up a few jobs to help cover what Stanford costs.

His answer arrives before I finish wondering how much I can afford.

Dad: No.

Me: Dad⁠—

Dad: Keep your money.

Another message follows.

Dad: I took on more work.

My stomach drops.

Me: What kind of work?

Dad: Private lessons. Weekend clinics. Helping with another program across town.

Me: You already work all the time.

Dad: Not your problem.

I start typing, erase it, then try again.

Me: You don’t have to do that.

Dad: I do.

The bubble disappears.

A full minute passes before another text comes through.

Dad: I shouldn’t have put my dream on your back.

My eyes burn.