I ended the call.
That should have been it.
Instead, the campaign began.
Dad called the next day.
He sounded uncomfortable.
That meant Mom had prepared the speech for him.
“Son.”
“Dad.”
“We need to talk about Chloe.”
“No.”
A pause.
“You need to hear me out.”
“I already know the amount.”
“Twelve thousand.”
“Yes.”
“She needs us.”
“She needs accountability.”
Dad became quiet.
“What does that mean?”
I almost told him.
Instead, I stopped.
“Nothing.”
He sighed.
“Family is supposed to step up.”
“I already gave four thousand.”
“And we appreciate that.”
Chloe had never said so.
Dad continued.
“This isn’t forever.”
“Mom said give, not loan.”
“She doesn’t need additional pressure.”
“I’m not giving it.”
Dad’s voice cooled.
“I’m disappointed.”
“Okay.”
Then Aunt Martha called.
Five minutes.
I timed it later.
Five uninterrupted minutes about loyalty, selfishness, gratitude, and how Chloe had “always been there for me.”
None of it matched reality.
Then my cousin Maya texted from Ohio.
Heard you’re refusing to help Chloe. Not cool. Do better.
That one hurt.
Maya and I were not close, but she had always seemed rational.
I typed three different responses.
Deleted them all.
By Sunday, I was furious.
Then Mom announced family dinner.
Brisket.
My mother’s brisket had become a family tradition.
She only made it when she wanted everyone gathered under one roof.
Birthdays.
Holiday weekends.
Major announcements.
Emotional interventions.
The brisket was less food than diplomatic architecture.
I considered not going.
Gabe said:
“Why are you going?”
“Because if I don’t, I become the villain before the conversation even starts.”
“You’re already the villain.”
He had a point.
Still, I went.
My parents’ dining room smelled exactly the way it had throughout my childhood.
Roasted potatoes.
Beef.
Coffee.
Furniture polish.
Chloe sat across from me.
She wore a loose cream sweater.
Minimal makeup.
Hair pulled back.
The aesthetic of tasteful suffering.
Aunt Martha sat beside her and kept touching her wrist.
Dad carved meat.
Mom managed the emotional temperature of the room.
For nearly an hour, I said almost nothing.
I ate.
Listened.
Waited.
Mom criticized Ethan.
Aunt Martha agreed.
Chloe sighed.
Dad stared at his plate.
Then Mom said something about Ethan probably ending up alone because “men like that eventually reveal themselves.”
My fork tightened in my hand.
I did not respond.
Dessert arrived.
Coffee.
That was when Mom turned toward me.
Her face became soft.
Disappointed.
Almost maternal.
“Leo.”
I knew.
“I hope you’ve had time to reflect.”
My stomach tightened.
“On?”
“Our conversation.”
“I already answered.”
She smiled slightly.
“Chloe needs the retainer by Tuesday.”
Chloe looked down at her plate.