I stack my hands vertically, a foot of space between them. “It was pink. It looked like a strawberry. It had all the sour strawberry drops she used to eat.” I’m up out of my seat, opening cabinets anddrawers. Looking behind piles. “You know the one. It was antique.” I scan the walls where my grandparents’ art used to hang. “You didn’t sell it, did you?”
“I can’t keep track of everything in here,” Dad says as he adds mayonnaise to the other buns. “This place was getting cluttered. If I see it, I’ll let you know, okay?”
I look in one last place where I might’ve stashed it before I left for college. The hallway closet with all the Fenton glass vases Mom and Grandma found at their estate sale hops. The closet’s completely empty.
I round the corner back to the kitchen as Dad says, “Here’s what we do: We get the house paid off, get it all fixed up, and we increase the value”—he snaps—“just like that. It’ll be great, Hazel. Then one day, when I’m too old to walk upstairs, it’ll be yours.” His tone is upbeat and confident. If I weren’t on edge, it might even be convincing. “Or maybe we put in an elevator.”
Dad doesn’t have the money in hand, and he’s already spending it. I haven’t agreed to pay anything off. Or to give any of the money to him.
The thought goes as fast as it comes. Am I horrible for thinking it? It feels like a betrayal, in a sense. I know all the reasons why Dad and Jerry getting even a modest amount of this money would be a bad idea, but how can something this incredible happen to me and I not share it with them?
“What if I hadn’t won the lottery?” I ask.
“But you did,” he says, his eyes dimming. “We can’t lose this house. So if you want it, you’re going to need to use that money. It’s like you said. We still have time to fix this. How often do you get second chances in life?”
My jaw aches. I’ve been grinding my teeth so hard that it’s locked.
“You can’t just go and refinance the house and expect me to pay for it,” I say. “That’s not how—”
“Jesus, Hazel. I learned my lesson. Don’t make me feel bad about this.”
I swallow. “I want to know why you did it. Why did you refinance knowing it’d put us both in a harder spot?”
He knows I’ve been putting money toward the mortgage every month for the past decade. I don’t travel, I restrict how many times I go out to eat and do things, and I limit what I buy. I help out Jerry so he doesn’t have to. I went into a career that made good money so I could contribute.
All this time, I’ve lived such a responsible life just for him and Jerry to have an irresponsible one.
“I needed the money, okay?” he says, turning to wash his hands at the sink. He doesn’t say anything more. Shutting down, like usual, when a topic he doesn’t want to talk about comes up.
“When you gamble, you gamble with my life,” I push.
Dad spins around. “Great. Now you’re making this about you. You win the lottery, and you still have something to bitch about. Why can’t you just be happy for once?”
My throat constricts. “Happy?” I manage. “You think I should be happy?”
“Why wouldn’t you be? I’ve been working my whole life to win something like you did, and you get it on a fluke. It’s hypocritical, is what this is.”
“I have rent, bills, loans,” I say. “I can’t afford this refinancing.”
“It was a mistake!” he shouts.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Your mistakes affect everyone around you. What about my goals? My dreams? My desires? I’ve been the sea legs of this family. Steady so when you and Jerry rock the boat, we’re not tipping over and drowning.”
“You want your dreams to come true? Join the club,” Dad says. “I’d like for just one thing to go right.”
“When you wrecked the car, I got a job after school to help pay for it. All so you could get to a job you only worked at for six months before quitting because you thought it was throwing your numbers off. When the water got shut off, I did extra chores at the neighbors and would walk to town to pay it off in person.”
“You become a millionaire, and suddenly you’re ungrateful for your whole life. Well, sorry you had it so bad,” Dad says. “It wasn’t easy for me after losing your mother.”
“I lost her, too!”
The toaster springs, the burger buns popping up.
“I’m probably going to take a job I don’t even know I want so I can make more money to help,” I say. “I do what’s right, even when it’s hard.”
“You always do what’s right,” Dad says. “You’re so responsible. Are you looking for a thank-you? Because sure, thanks. Thanks for all you do.”
“I don’t care about thank-yous. I just want help!”
