The envelope in my bag felt heavier than paper ever should.
Not because of the cash inside—though that was enough to make my palms sweat—but because of what it represented: my parents’ lake house, sold down to the last memory, and my car, signed away like it was nothing more than metal and miles. I told myself it was sacrifice. I told myself it was love. I told myself this was how families built futures.
And then, on my way to the bank, one phone call turned that envelope into something else entirely.
A warning.
A siren.
A cold hand on the back of my neck.
Before sunrise, I sat on the edge of our worn mattress and watched Alton sleep as if the world had never asked him to pay for anything. He looked peaceful in that effortless way people do when someone else is carrying their responsibilities.
I touched his shoulder.
“Alton. Wake up. I’m taking the money to the bank today, like we agreed.”
He blinked himself into morning, rubbed his eyes, and smiled at me the way he always did—soft, familiar, practiced.
“Morning, darling,” he murmured. “Up early again, huh?”
