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The machine itself is immaculate. White body gleaming under the living room light, metallic silver accents, clean modernist lines, and a glossy touchscreen. The wide table attachment lies beside it like an extra wing. Several small boxes filled with specialized feet, bobbins, and guides are nestled in custom compartments.
I don’t know what ninety percent of it does, but Kamden clearly does.
“Oh my God,” he whispers.
He touches the machine like it’s holy—fingertips grazing then retreating, as though it might dissolve under too much pressure.
Then he touches it again, more firmly this time. “Daddy, this is insane.”
“So I’m gathering.”
“This costs—”
“Don’t care.”
“I care,” he says, his voice small and tight.
“Why?”
“Because it’s expensive. Really expensive…”
“Still not seeing the problem.”
He gives me a watery, exasperated look, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I didn’t earn this.”
My chest tightens. There it is—the old reflex, that ingrained belief that kindness always comes with strings. I reach over, the calluses on my fingers catching against the smooth skin of his chin as I gently pinch it. “Don’t.”
He blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “Don’t what?”
“Turn a present into debt.” My thumb strokes his jaw once before I release him.
His eyes drop to the floor, shoulders curling inward. “You don’t even know who gave it to me.”
“No.”
“Then what if they expect something?” The question is barely a whisper, laden with nineteen years of learned caution.
“They’ll deal with me.” Simple. Final.
Kamden looks at me again, searching my face for any hint of doubt. Finding none, he gives a shaky nod—not entirely convinced, but willing to trust.
We’ll work on it.
I start moving the loose packaging aside and find an envelope tucked beneath the accessory tray. “Here, honey. Has your name on it.”
Kamden takes it with unsteady hands. His fingers shake slightly as he slides one finger beneath the flap, the paper whispering as it gives way.
I watch his expression as he reads.
Confusion first—brows drawing together as he scans the message.
Then surprise—lips parting slightly, eyes widening.
“Who’s it from?” I ask.
Kamden silently hands me the card. It’s elegant cream cardstock, featuring one sentence in precise black ink.
Congratulations on the scholarship.
