Mom lowered her voice. “Your father thinks your account is probably disorganized right now. You should let him help manage things.”
“My account?”
“Well, you’re emotional.”
“I’m also thirty-two.”
“And still impulsive,” she snapped. “Don’t forget who raised you.”
I said nothing. I looked down at Noah’s perfect fist curled around my finger, and something deep inside me became very still.
They had always called me weak. Sensitive. Ungrateful. The daughter who “got lucky” marrying a good man and landing a “cute little job” in compliance law.
