How many times had he convinced me that “supporting family” meant that I pay for his sister’s nephew’s tuition, his mother’s groceries, the roof repair on his uncle’s house, always from my accounts, always “just this once.”
How many times had he smiled in front of others talking about our plans, while I knew we couldn’t even pay the full rent without my father secretly covering a part of it because Patrick’s “business deal got stuck.”
How many times had he made me believe that asking for respect was vulgar.
And yet, the question he asked me that night wasn’t “how could I hurt you?”. It was “how could you stop letting me?”.
“Yes,” I replied. “I completely agree.”
It was like watching a wall fall on top of him.
Patrick took a step back. Then another. He looked at my father, my mother, my aunts and uncles, at me again, and understood something essential: there was no longer a crack to slip through.
“Then I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he spat.
My cousin Jason leaned back in his chair with a half-smile.
“We’re wondering the same thing.”
Patrick grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair. He put it on poorly, with clumsy movements. Before leaving, he turned to me one last time.
I waited for an apology.
A final lie.
Something.
All he said was:
“This is going to cost you, Jenna.”
My father didn’t let him finish turning around.
“It’s going to cost you more if tomorrow there is a single page, a single card, or a single transfer missing from the list.”
Patrick froze for a second.
“What list?”
