I keep moving.
I pull a bowl down from the cabinet. I open the drawer for spoons. I keep my hands busy because if they stop, I’ll shake.
“I told her,” I say, “that the insurance company is going to pay it out soon.”
Dad’s brows lift. “They said that?”
“I said it,” I admit quickly, and then I rush the rest before he can interrupt. “I told her the payback is all but guaranteed, and if they don’t move fast, it’s going to cost more, and…"
“Erica.”
I keep going anyway, because stopping means he’ll ask questions I can’t answer.
“And I have employment now,” I add. “Real, steady employment. I showed her my pay stubs. I told her I can cover the payments if insurance drags its feet.”
Dad’s face tightens.
Not at the loan. At me.
At the idea of my putting my neck out.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, voice low. “You shouldn’t have put yourself on the line for something like that.”
Something like that.
My stomach twists.
“For what?” I say, sharper than I mean. “Your life?”
Dad flinches like I slapped him.
I hate myself for that instantly.
I set the ladle down too hard, then pick it back up and move with exaggerated care.
I scoop soup into the bowl. The broth is thin, but it smells good.
I grab the bread from the counter and lay two slices on a cutting board.
“What are you doing?” he asks, quieter now.
“Making you a sandwich,” I say, like it’s obvious.
He gives me a look. “I can make my own sandwich.”
“Sit,” I tell him without thinking.
The word is flat. Direct.
A command.
My chest tightens.
I hear Nico in it.
I hate that I do.
Dad sighs and eases into the chair at the small kitchen table, moving slowly like he’s trying not to make me notice.
