“No.”
I said it quietly. Quiet enough that the word did not belong to the room. It belonged to me.
My father’s expression changed first. The muscles around his mouth tightened, and a color climbed his neck. He had a face people trusted in boardrooms—handsome in a disciplined, controlled way, silver at the temples, teeth too even, eyes that liked to pause just long enough before he disagreed with you. When I was little, I used to think he looked like certainty. By the time I was sixteen, I understood he looked like a man who expected the world to bend before he had to repeat himself.
“This isn’t a request,” he said. “Your sister’s startup failed, and she needs a fresh start. Your little coding projects can be her stepping stone.”
Little coding projects.
