My mother said she would talk to her husband Paul, but they had just bought a new living room set. My father invited me to coffee and spent half an hour explaining that I should have had six months of savings.
Natalie said her children’s school tuition was outrageous. Brandon didn’t even answer. My Aunt Marjorie, who was always bragging about her house in Westchester, sent me a voice message saying that “poverty is also the result of bad decisions.”
And now we were sitting at this family lunch because my mother said that “talking face-to-face would bring everyone closer.” In reality, they wanted me to stop asking.
“I only asked for help once,” I said.
Natalie lifted her eyebrows.
“Once from each of us. That’s called pressure, Maddie.”
That nickname, which had once sounded sweet, now felt like a way to shrink me. My father placed his napkin on the table.
“You helped before because you had the means. Now it’s time for you to learn humility.”
I almost laughed out loud. Humility. From them. From the same people who called me responsible whenever they needed another transfer.
