I had skipped vacations, worked in twelve-degree weather, and lived with bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling.

Every dollar I didn’t spend on food went into the account for Megan’s “treatments.”

I looked at the wallpaper in my small dining area.

It was peeling at the corners.

I hadn’t even had the money to paint it.

“How could you?” I asked Megan.

My voice was barely a whisper.

“You watched me take those extra shifts.”

“You sat right there at that table and watched me limp after a twelve-hour day on the concrete.”

Megan scoffed.

She crossed her arms over her chest.

The fragile, victim persona she had worn for a decade was evaporating.

Underneath it was someone cold and hard.

“You wanted to do it,” Megan said.

“You wanted to play the hero.”

“It made you feel good to sacrifice everything.”

“Don’t blame me for your choices.”

My father let out a ragged breath.

He looked down at his own hands.

They were scarred from forty years at the manufacturing plant.

He had worked overtime too.

He had mortgaged his house twice.