I did not cry on the highway the way I used to after family gatherings. I did not rehearse speeches in my head or argue with imaginary versions of them until my throat hurt. I did not tell myself they were stressed, or proud, or damaged, or trying in the only ways they knew how.
I drove straight home, walked into my apartment, kicked off my shoes, set my keys on the counter, and opened my laptop.
The first thing I did was pull up the spreadsheet.
It had started years earlier as a practical tool, the kind of thing you build when you are the only responsible person in a family full of people who live like consequences are a rumor. At first it was simple. A few transfers. A utility payment here. A tuition installment there. The kind of thing you tell yourself is temporary.
Then temporary became recurring.
