“We are talking about a temporary bridge loan,” Kyle said, his corporate jargon starting to slip. “If you refuse to cooperate, you are essentially telling us you do not want to be part of this family unit.”
“Is that what this is?” I asked, looking directly at my father.
George did not answer. He picked up his fork again, his hand steadying as he pressed the metal tines into a piece of potato until it mashed into the plate.
“If you walk away from us now,” Kyle said, “do not expect to come back when you need something.”
I looked at the blue logo on the paper by my plate, then at the chipped serving platter. I had spent seven years answering their late-night calls, paying for Brianna’s car insurance, and buying groceries for my parents when George’s hardware store had a bad quarter.
I unfolded my paper napkin, laid it flat on the table next to the statement, and stood up
