My mother stepped closer.
“We were wrong. We handled things badly. But the bank is moving fast, and if you restart the payments now, we can still save everything.”
There it was.
Not “we hurt you.”
Not “we lied.”
Restart the payments.
I looked at the folder.
For a moment, I saw everything it had cost me: the apartment I never bought, the meals I skipped, the nights I worked through fatigue, the hidden photographs, the sofa, the gala, the empty chairs at my promotion.
Then I saw something else.
My small room on base. My new savings account. My shipmates. My morning runs. My own name on my own future.
“I don’t want half your house,” I said.
My mother blinked. “What?”
“I don’t want any of it.”
My father finally looked up, panic sharpening his face.
“Clara, don’t be emotional.”
That almost sounded familiar enough to hurt.
