My body went so still I could hear my pulse in my ears.
Mom touched my shoulder. “Family comes first, Almeida.”
I looked down at her hand.
She had said that phrase my whole life. Family comes first when Max needed help moving apartments after losing another job. Family comes first when he missed Dad’s birthday dinner and I was told not to make him feel bad. Family comes first when I was exhausted from work and still expected to smile through Sunday dinners while everyone pretended Max was just “figuring things out.”
But that day, the words landed differently.
Because family had come first, apparently.
Just not me.
“Max needs it more than you do right now,” Mom said.
I turned my head slowly toward the living room.
Max finally looked away from the television. He had the nerve to shrug.
“It’s temporary,” he said.
I stared at him.
“How is all of it temporary?”
He looked back at the screen. “You can get loans.”
Dad said my name in warning, like I was being difficult. Mom squeezed my shoulder, like my future was an inconvenience we could smooth over if everyone used soft voices.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I stepped away from my mother’s hand.
“Show me the account.”
Dad looked at Mom.
That was my first clue.
“What?” I said.
Dad swallowed. “There’s not much to show right now.”
“How much is left?”
Nobody answered.
Max pressed buttons on his controller, faster now.
“How much?” I repeated.
Mom’s eyes filled with tears. “Don’t turn this into a scene.”
I laughed once, because my body did not know what else to do.
“A scene?”
“You don’t need to make this harder,” she whispered.
Something inside me folded itself into a tight, quiet shape. I picked up my acceptance letter from the kitchen island, smoothed the corner with my thumb, and walked back to my room.
Nobody followed me.
That night, I packed a bag and drove to my best friend Rachel’s apartment. I slept on her pullout couch under a faded quilt while she sat on the floor beside me, furious on my behalf.
“They can’t just take it,” she said.
“They already did.”
“Then you go to the bank.”
“I will.”
“Tomorrow?”
I stared at the ceiling.
“No,” I said. “Now.”
First National was ten minutes from closing when I pulled into the parking lot. The sky over Chicago had turned a bruised orange, and the lights inside the bank looked too warm, too normal, like people’s lives did not fall apart under fluorescent bulbs every day.
Robert, the security guard, smiled when he saw me.
“Almeida Reynolds,” he said. “Future doctor. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
The word doctor nearly cracked me open.
“Hi, Robert.”