The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet morning. My heart did a stupid, treacherous leap. Maybe they’re sorry.
I picked it up. It was a text from my father, Thomas Flores.
There was no apology. No question about my well-being. The text read:
“We will need $8,400 for your brother’s wedding venue deposit. You have always been the responsible one.”
I read it twice. Three times. The audacity sucked the air from my lungs. He hadn’t just ignored my wedding; less than twenty-four hours later, he was invoicing me for the Golden Boy’s celebration. He was using his favorite weapon—my own competence—against me. “Responsible Nola.” “Nola the Fixer.”
I handed the phone to David. I watched a muscle in his jaw twitch.
“Don’t answer this,” David said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Don’t engage. Just delete it.”
He was right. That was the logical move. But something inside me, a dam that had been holding back twenty years of sludge, finally burst.
“No,” I said coldly.
I took the phone back. I opened my banking app. I typed in my father’s account number, which I still knew by heart. I typed in the amount.
$1.00.
