My jaw tightens. The gold card feels heavier in my palm now.
Me: I have things. At my apartment. Remember? The place where I actually live?
Nico: The discussion is over.
I stare at those four words.
The discussion is over.
Jack used to say things like that. Different words, same meaning. "I've decided, Kris. Don't make this difficult." Or his favorite: "This isn't up for debate."
My stomach twists.
Me: You don't get to decide when discussions are over.
Send.
The reply takes longer this time. Thirty seconds. A minute.
Nico: You're right. But the card stays. Use it or don't. Your choice.
Your choice.
I look at the card again. Think about what it represents.
Lily's shoes are held together with hope and desperation. Her winter coat is too small—she's grown two inches since I bought it at Goodwill last year. The stuffed bunnies she carries everywhere are missing eyes, losing stuffing, loved to the point of disintegration.
I've never been able to buy her something new. Something that wasn't already worn by someone else's child first.
The opportunity to not think twice before buying something small for Lily.
That's what this card means.
No more calculating whether I can afford the slightly-better cereal. No more pretending the generic brand tastes just as good when Lily asks why her Cheerios look different from the ones in commercials.
No more telling her "maybe next time" when she points at something in a store window.
"Mommy?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Can we get ice cream after Grandma's?"
My automatic response forms on my tongue: We'll see. The phrase every parent uses when they mean probably not but can't bear to say it.
I look at the gold card.
"Yeah," I hear myself say. "We can get ice cream."
Lily's face lights up.
I pocket the card.
It feels like surrender. It feels like freedom. It feels like both things at once, and I don't know how to hold the contradiction.
What am I doing?
The question echoes again. Louder this time.
