My heart stopped. “What? Is he okay?”
“He’s stable, but honey, we don’t have good insurance. The medical bills… and we’re already behind on the mortgage. They’re talking about foreclosure.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “How much do you need?”
“I hate asking you this. You just started working, but you’re the only one who can save this family.”
$2,000 a month. That’s what we agreed on. I set up the automatic transfer that same night.
“One more thing,” Mom said before hanging up. “Don’t tell your father. He’d be so ashamed. This stays between us.”
I agreed. Of course, I agreed. What kind of daughter wouldn’t help her family?
She never said thank you. Not that first night. Not ever. Instead, she said, “This is what daughters do.”
Three days later, I scrolled through Instagram. Megan had posted a new photo. She was holding up a Louis Vuitton bag, grinning at the camera. The caption read, “Best mom ever.”
She knew I needed some retail therapy after my breakup.
