Dad: All this over money?
All this over money.
I looked at Ethan across the kitchen table.
He was reading the messages with the same stillness he had carried in the hospital.
“Block him,” he said.
It was not an order.
It was permission.
But I did not block him yet.
I needed the record.
So I took more screenshots.
I saved everything to a folder Jenna named FAMILY FILE, because Jenna had a dark sense of humor when she was angry.
Over the next week, my parents tried every door they had ever used to reach me.
My mother left voicemails that started with crying and ended with blame.
My father sent messages about duty, sacrifice, and respect.
My sister finally admitted that Mom’s surgery had not even been scheduled yet.
There had been a consultation.
There was an estimate.
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