I had worked three jobs for that acceptance. I had cleaned offices at night, tutored rich kids who called me “the scholarship girl,” and saved every tip from the diner in a coffee can under my bed. Ellison was my way out of that dining room, out of my mother’s tight little sighs and my father’s favorite sentence: “Why can’t you be more like Brandon?”
I looked at him. “Why would I sign this?”
Dad’s jaw tightened once. “Because family comes first.”
That meant Brandon came first.
Mom finally lifted her eyes. “Your brother is under enough stress. You embarrassed him at church. You accused him of something awful.”
“He sold my laptop,” I said. “And my camera. I found the pawn slips in his truck.”
Brandon laughed softly. “There she goes again. Always dramatic.”
Dad slammed the table so hard the glasses jumped. “You will apologize to your brother tonight, or we cut off your education. No tuition help. No co-signed housing. No car. Nothing.”
