“Giving back?” I repeated.
Dad turned the calculator toward me.
Half my monthly salary.
Displayed in black numbers.
For a moment, I remembered being sixteen and stocking grocery shelves after school while Dad slept until noon.
Seventeen, paying the electric bill because Mom said job interviews made her anxious.
Nineteen, missing college orientation so I could cover their rent.
Twenty-four, eating instant noodles while Mom posted photos from a casino weekend I had unknowingly paid for.
They called it family.
I called it survival.
Now, at twenty-eight, I had finally earned a senior analyst position at a finance firm.
I had health insurance.
A retirement account.
A small apartment with plants in the window.
For the first time, my money had a future instead of another emergency attached to it.
