"I'll stay a bit longer."
He didn't argue. Just settled back against the pillows, color already fading from his cheeks. Leaving him pale again. Mortal. Breakable.
I waited until he'd finished the second lemon bar. Until his breathing evened and some of the tension left his shoulders.
"We need to talk about money."
His expression shuttered immediately. The warmth draining like someone had pulled a plug.
"Belle—"
"The hospital bills. The insurance gap. The store barely breaking even." I kept my voice level. Reasonable. "We need to figure this out."
"There's nothing to figure out." He shifted against the pillows, jaw tight. "I told you, I'm handling it."
"How?"
"You're worrying too much."
The dismissal landed like a slap.
"Dad—"
"I said I'm handling it." Sharper now. "You don't understand how these things work."
Something hot flared beneath my ribs.
"I understand math." My hands fisted in my lap. "I understand overdue notices. I understand hospitals don't accept optimism as payment."
His face flushed—that wrong, feverish color returning. "Don't talk to me like I'm a child."
"Then stop acting like one."
The words escaped before I could stop them. Hung between us, ugly and true.
He straightened, wincing. "You're overreacting. Making this bigger than it is. I made some investments that didn't pan out. It happens. I'll fix it."
"With what money?" My voice climbed despite myself. "The store's drowning. You're in a hospital bed. What exactly is your plan?"
"My plan is to not have my daughter undermine me while I'm?—"
"While you're what? Dying?"
Silence crashed down.
His breathing quickened. Shallow. Pained.
I immediately regretted it.
But I didn't take it back.
"You're hiding things," I said quietly. "Gambling with our future because you're too proud to admit you need help."
"I don't need?—"
"Yes. You do."
He looked away. Jaw working. Hands trembling against the sheets.
