The dining room hadn’t changed. Same heavy chairs, same polished oak table, same soft jazz humming from the corner speaker like every holiday since I was twelve. Mom had made her signature roasted squash. Dad carved the turkey with surgical precision like he was still in the O.R. For a moment, I almost convinced myself things were fine. Then as he passed me the mashed potatoes, Dad looked up and smiled. Is the two thousand enough each month? The fork slipped from my hand.
I blinked. What money? A pause. Then everything went quiet.
Even the jazz seemed to fade out. Dad’s smile dropped. He looked at Mom.
She didn’t meet his eyes. I… I don’t understand, I said slowly, my voice barely above a whisper. I haven’t gotten anything.
Leona Dad’s voice was sharp but not angry yet. Not yet. She dabbed her lips with a napkin then set it down.
I thought… I thought it would be better used elsewhere. Better used? He repeated louder now. You told me you’d handle the transfers.
I did, she said simply. To who, his voice cracked. Because it wasn’t to Iris.
Mom reached for her water but her hand trembled slightly. Soraya’s program is more expensive. She needs it more.
You know how hard it is to break into fashion. It’s competitive. Unforgiving.
And Iris is what just supposed to survive on scraps while our other daughter walks through Rodeo Drive Byron. He cut her off. No.
I need to know. For how long? She sighed. Since August.
He turned back to me. Iris. You’ve had nothing.
No transfers, no support at all. I shook my head. I asked once.
Mom said there wasn’t anything left after tuition. His shoulders fell. I thought you were okay.
I’ve been working nights, I said. Tutoring. Bar shifts.
Skipping meals. But sure, I’m fine. Mom’s chair creaked as she stood.
Don’t do this here. It’s Thanksgiving. Dad didn’t move.
He just looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time in a very long time. I need some air, I said standing. The hallway felt too quiet.
Too familiar. I stepped outside clutching my jacket and tried to breathe. The fall semester blurred into long nights and longer days.
I stacked my schedule until there wasn’t a single blank square left on my calendar. Anatomy lab in the morning, tutoring in the afternoon’s bar shifts that stretched past midnight. I told myself it was temporary.
Just until I caught up. Just until rent cleared. Just until I could breathe.
Most days I skipped breakfast. Lunch was whatever I could grab between buildings, usually a protein bar and black coffee. Dinner was instant ramen or day-old pastries from the cafe near campus that tossed out unsold stock at closing.
My shoes had started to separate at the soles. I stapled them shut. On a Friday night shift at the bar, my body finally stopped pretending.
I remember the moment clearly tray of drinks and hand music pulsing someone waving for service. Then heat. Then nothing.
When I opened my eyes it was sterile white above me the slow beep of monitors and IV in my arm. The ER nurse asked if I had anyone to call. I said no.