But then, my dad set down his fork with a deliberate clink.
“We’re done pretending,” he said, cutting through the murmur of conversation. His gaze, which had been steady all night, now shifted to me. His voice, when it came, was cold—almost methodical.
“You owe us $180,000 for your brother’s arm,” he said, as though he were talking about a debt from a business transaction, not something related to family. “So you’ll be paying $3,500 a month.”
My stomach dropped.
I stared at him, momentarily speechless. I had known there had been financial struggles after Dylan’s accident—medical bills, treatments, rehab—but this? This was something else entirely.
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