“When have you helped me?”
He actually looked confused.
Not guilty.
Confused.
I repeated it.
“When have any of you helped me?”
“We raised you.”
“After I turned eighteen.”
He stared at me.
“When I opened my first restaurant.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“You called it a mistake.”
“That’s advice.”
“When Clare had surgery two years ago.”
“We sent flowers.”
“The restaurant staff brought meals to our house for two weeks.”
Dad said nothing.
“When my second location flooded.”
“You handled it.”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re good at that stuff.”
There.
The sentence.
The entire family philosophy in ten words.
You’re good at that stuff.
I was capable.
Therefore I needed nothing.
Tessa was incapable.
Therefore she deserved everything.
I said, “Being strong doesn’t mean I don’t notice who shows up.”
Dad’s anger faded slightly.
For a second, I saw something else.
Maybe shame.
Maybe fear.
