“She’s building a brand,” my mother said sharply. “You don’t understand because your career is more traditional.”
“My career pays me.”
“Christina,” Dad warned.
I leaned back. “What exactly are you asking?”
No one answered immediately. They had planned the pressure, not the wording. My mother glanced at my father. My father cleared his throat.
“You have a second bedroom,” he said.
“No.”
The word came out before he finished. It surprised even me, not because I had not meant it, but because I did not decorate it first. No apology. No explanation. Just no.
My mother blinked. “You didn’t let him finish.”
“I don’t need him to finish.”
Bethany crossed her arms. “Wow.”
Dad’s face reddened. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“You were going to say Bethany should move into my condo.”
My mother’s mouth tightened. “Not permanently.”
“No.”
“Just until she gets on her feet,” Dad said. “Six months. Maybe a year.”
“No.”
“You have space.”
“No.”
“The second bedroom is empty.”
“It’s my office.”
Mom waved a hand. “You can work from the dining table. Or your bedroom. You’ve always been adaptable.”
There it was again. The family translation of adaptability: Christina can absorb the inconvenience.
“No,” I said.