Page 170 of Ruthless Court
Dad: You always did like figuring out why people did stupid things.
A laugh slips out.
Me: It’s a rich field.
Dad: Making friends?
Me: Two good roommates. Lila and Noor.
Dad: They treating you okay?
Me: They make fun of my glasses and steal my clothes.
Dad: Sounds healthy.
The tension loosens by half an inch.
I stare at his name above the messages.
Then type the thing I’ve been meaning to tell Mom.
Me: I’m going to send money home when I get paid. I picked up a few jobs to help cover what Stanford costs.
His answer arrives before I finish wondering how much I can afford.
Dad: No.
Me: Dad—
Dad: Keep your money.
Another message follows.
Dad: I took on more work.
My stomach drops.
Me: What kind of work?
Dad: Private lessons. Weekend clinics. Helping with another program across town.
Me: You already work all the time.
Dad: Not your problem.
I start typing, erase it, then try again.
Me: You don’t have to do that.
Dad: I do.
The bubble disappears.
A full minute passes before another text comes through.
Dad: I shouldn’t have put my dream on your back.
My eyes burn.
