“But why don’t we go there?” Emma asked. “Aunt Camille said only people who work hard get to eat at the steakhouse.”
“Your mother works very hard, Emma,” I said, keeping my voice level as I wiped down the counter.
“Then why is our car rusty?” Ethan asked, looking up from his toast.
“It is just seasoned,” I said, offering them a small smile. “It gets us where we need to go.”
I sat down at the table and opened my banking app on my phone. The screen glowed in the dim kitchen light, displaying my primary checking account balance of four thousand two hundred ten dollars.
If I initiated the thirty-six hundred transfer now, five days early, my remaining balance would not cover the utility bill due on Tuesday.
I tapped my fingernail against the glass screen, the sound sharp and rhythmic in the quiet room.
The transfer screen prompted me with the standard confirmation box, the digits of my parents’ routing number sitting in the center of the white field.
I held my thumb over the blue button, my hand motionless as the clock on the stove changed to 9:12.
