At dinner, my parents demanded I apologize to their golden son or lose my education. I said, “Alright.” By dawn, I was packed. My brother’s face drained white: “Please tell me you didn’t send it.” Dad froze. “Send what?”

My dead grandmother’s trust had been emptied.

And Brandon’s truck, the one Dad claimed came from “hard work,” had been bought with money Grandma left for my tuition. Parenting

I folded the deferral form in half. Then again.

Mom whispered, “Ava, don’t make this harder.”

Brandon leaned forward. “Say you lied. Then we can all eat.”