I tapped it open and logged in, my password as familiar as my own name.
For years, my parents had insisted we keep a joint “family fund.” “Emergency cushion,” my dad had called it. My mom had called it “our safety net.” I called it a joke, privately. A joke where the punchline was watching my hard-earned money disappear into my sister’s nails, dresses, and weekends away.
When I started college, every paycheck from my part-time job went into that account. Every scholarship refund, every freelance gig, every extra tutoring session. Mom said it was “our way of all pulling together.”
Funny how only one person ever did the pulling.
Months ago, when I’d asked about the spa charges and plane tickets listed under my mom’s name, she’d shrugged.
“Lily needs more support than you do,” she had said. “You’re the strong one. You always figure things out.”
The strong one. The invisible one. The dependable one. The girl who could be trusted with heavy things so everyone else could dance.
I scanned the account balance now. The number glowed back at me, too big and too small at the same time. Every dollar I’d earned. Every dollar they’d spent under the assumption that I would never claim it.
The line inched forward. The row in front of me stepped into motion, shuffling toward the stairs that led to the stage.
I opened the transfer menu.
