We just finished renovating the kitchen with my money,” I reminded her quietly. “The $45,000 loan you never questioned—the one that came directly from my retirement savings.”
The knocking at the front door grew more insistent.
I stood and walked toward it, pausing to look back at my daughter, still frozen in shock at my kitchen table, surrounded by the paper trail of maternal sacrifices she’d taken for granted.
“You should prepare Blake for what he’s about to learn,” I advised. “It might be easier coming from you.”
I
