Perfect,” I said. “Then don’t ask for money.”
Dad frowned. “What money?”
No one answered.
I pulled out my phone and opened my transfer history. “The money I’ve been sending to Denise every month,” I said. “For this house. For your medication. For Tyler’s problems. All of it stops tonight.”
The color drained from Denise’s face.
And from the way Dad stared at her, I knew the cruelest part of the night wasn’t what she had said.
It was that he had never known where the money came from at all.
Dad showed up at my condo the next morning with two grocery-store coffees and ten extra years on his face.
“I need the truth,” he said before I had fully opened the door.
I let him in. He didn’t sit until I turned my laptop toward him and showed him nineteen bank transfers, all sent to Denise’s personal account. January. February. March. The months stacked like receipts for a life I had been quietly funding while pretending it was temporary.
He kept scrolling, jaw tight.
