When my parents walked into my office carrying sketches for a luxury boutique, they acted as if the deal had already been made. My younger sister, Marlowe, sat beside them without speaking while my mother described storefronts, branding, and the life I supposedly owed the family for believing in me. They had spent years telling everyone my company was really our success, even though I had built it alone from a borrowed laptop and countless unpaid nights.

I asked my father one question instead. “How much did the taxi cost the night you dropped me at the bus station?” He smiled awkwardly and guessed three dollars, then five, before realizing the fare was never the point. I reached for my checkbook, wrote a number without another word, and slid it across the polished desk toward Marlowe.