Mom texted, “We can’t make your son’s birthday. Tight month.” I replied, “No worries.” The next evening, I saw photos. Bounce house catering mountains of gifts for my sister’s kids. My son whispered, “They always have money for them.” I didn’t say a word. I just canled this. At 8:47 a.m., my dad was knocking so hard the windows shook.

“What are you going to do?”

The next morning, I opened my banking app. The recurring transfer glowed calmly on the screen. $800. Scheduled for the first of every month.

Thirty-six completed transfers.

I tapped “cancel recurring transfer.”

The app asked if I was sure.

Yes.

I pressed confirm.

I expected guilt to flood in. Instead, something inside me felt strangely weightless.

For five days, nothing happened.

On the sixth morning, at 8:47 a.m., someone began pounding on our front door so hard the windows rattled.

I looked through the peephole.

Dad.

Red-faced.

Furious.

“Elena Marie Thompson!” he shouted.

Mason froze at the kitchen table mid-bite of pancake.