Six days later. 8:47 a.m. The pounding shook the windows.
“Elena Marie Thompson!”
Dad. Red-faced. Veins in his neck bulging.
I opened the door halfway. “What’s going on?” I asked calmly.
“What’s going on?” he barked. “Where’s the transfer?”
“It’s gone.”
Mom pulled up seconds later, already crying. “Elena, sweetheart, did something happen? Are you in trouble?”
“Yes,” I said. “I saw the photos.”
Silence. Dad’s face shifted—not guilt. Anger.
“That was Veronica’s kids. They needed it.”
“And Mason didn’t?”
“That’s different,” he snapped.
Different.
Jake stepped behind me but didn’t say a word. Dad kept going.
“You owe us. We raised you.”
There it was. Not help. Not support. An obligation.
I took a breath. “I’ve sent you $28,800 in three years. If you needed help, you could’ve said you preferred spending it elsewhere. But you don’t get to skip my son’s birthday and then show up here demanding money.”
Mom tried to grab my hand. “Sweetheart, we just assumed you understood—”
“I did,” I said. “That’s the problem.”
Dad’s voice rose. “You’re being dramatic over a party.”
Mason was standing in the hallway now, holding his plate. Jake crouched beside him, steady.
I looked at my father. “No. I’m being done.”
He sputtered threats. Said I was ungrateful. Said family helps family.
I stepped aside and pointed toward the driveway. “Then help your grandchildren equally.”
I closed the door while he was still talking.
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