“I wanted privacy,” I said.
“Privacy from your family?” Dad asked.
“Yes.”
Bethany gave a short laugh. “At least she’s honest.”
Mom shot her a look, then softened her expression at me in a way that once would have made me feel guilty. “Darling, we’re not upset that you bought a place. Of course we’re proud. Very proud. It sounds beautiful.”
“It is.”
“And you must be doing very well,” Dad said.
That was not admiration. That was assessment.
“I’m comfortable,” I said.
My mother leaned forward. “Then you understand why we think it’s time to talk about giving back.”
There it was.
I felt something in me go quiet, not calm exactly, but alert. A deer in the woods hearing a branch snap.
“Giving back,” I repeated.
“To family,” she said, as if that completed the argument.
My father took over, his hands folded on the table. “Your sister is at a transitional point. She’s ready to become independent, but the market is difficult. Young people today face barriers we didn’t face.”
Bethany, who had never paid her own car insurance, nodded solemnly.
“She’s been trying to move forward,” Mom added. “But Chicago rent is outrageous, and she needs an environment where she can build her career.”
“What career?” I asked.
Bethany’s eyes flashed. “Content strategy.”
“You mean social media.”
“That is content strategy.”
“She’s building a brand,” my mother said sharply. “You don’t understand because your career is more traditional.”
“My career pays me.”
“Christina,” Dad warned.
I leaned back. “What exactly are you asking?”
No one answered immediately. They had planned the pressure, not the wording. My mother glanced at my father. My father cleared his throat.
“You have a second bedroom,” he said.
“No.”
The word came out before he finished. It surprised even me, not because I had not meant it, but because I did not decorate it first. No apology. No explanation. Just no.
My mother blinked. “You didn’t let him finish.”
“I don’t need him to finish.”
Bethany crossed her arms. “Wow.”
Dad’s face reddened. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“You were going to say Bethany should move into my condo.”
My mother’s mouth tightened. “Not permanently.”
“No.”
“Just until she gets on her feet,” Dad said. “Six months. Maybe a year.”
“No.”
“You have space.”
“No.”
“The second bedroom is empty.”
“It’s my office.”
Mom waved a hand. “You can work from the dining table. Or your bedroom. You’ve always been adaptable.”