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“You took it.” The accusation hangs between us, thick and suffocating.

“Don’t start.” Her voice carries that particular warning tone I’ve learned to recognize over nineteen years.

“You took it.” The repetition sounds pathetic even to my own ears.

“I said don’t start.” Her jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath her skin.

I stare, unable to look away as a roaring sound fills my ears like ocean waves crashing against my skull. “Mom…”

Her expression hardens into something familiar and terrifying, her lip curling. “Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

“That was mine.” The words feel small and inadequate.

“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows shoot up, feigning surprise.

“That was my money.” My voice gains strength despite the tremor in my hands.

She actually laughs—a single, sharp burst of sound that cuts through the room. “What money is yours when you live under my roof?” The question hangs between us, and I feel the phantom sting of a slap across my face.

“I—I earned it.” My fingers curl into fists at my sides.

“And?” She spreads her hands, palms up, as if the answer should be obvious.

“I worked for it.” The memory of countless shifts stocking shelves flashes through my mind—the ache in my back, the smell of cardboard and disinfectant.

“So?” Her voice begins to climb, taking on that shrill quality that means we’re heading into familiar territory. “You think I don’t work? You think groceries appear out of nowhere? Electricity? Water? Heat? You live here, Kamden.” She says my name like an accusation.

“I give you money.” The bills I’d hand over after each paycheck suddenly feel insignificant.

“Thirty fucking dollars here and there.” She mimics counting out small bills with her fingers.

“I pay the phone bill.”

“Sometimes.” The word lands like a dart.

“And electric.”

“Sometimes.” Another dart.

“I buy groceries.”

“Because you eat them!” Her sudden shout makes me flinch backward instinctively.

She takes a step into the room, her presence suddenly filling the space. “You’ve been sitting on nearly five thousand dollars while I’m fucking struggling?” Her eyes sweep over me, taking in my torn jeans, my shaking hands, the tears I’m no longer bothering to hide.

“It’s for school.” The explanation sounds weak even to me.

She scoffs, a dry, ugly sound. “Oh, right. School.”

A sudden, violent cramp seizes my gut, a fist clenching deep inside me. I taste bile at the back of my throat. “Yes.”

“Your little fashion thing.” She says it like it’s a joke, her lips twisting into a sneer.

“It’s college.”

“I know what it is.” Her voice is flat, dismissive.

“You know I got the scholarship.”