The notification on my phone screen was unobtrusive—a simple gray banner that flashed for two seconds and then disappeared. But the impact of the text carried the weight of a sledgehammer.

Wire Transfer Complete: -$50,000 (Preston Academy, Fall Semester).

I sat at the mahogany dining table in my parents’ house, the phone resting face down next to my fork. The smell of roast beef and rosemary filled the room, a scent that usually triggered nostalgia but tonight only induced nausea.

Across the table, my father, Robert, was beaming. He held a glass of expensive Cabernet—a bottle I had brought—and gestured grandly toward my fifteen-year-old nephew, Julian.

“Another semester, another 4.0?” Robert boomed, his voice thick with pride. “You really are a chip off the old block, son. It’s amazing you got that full ride. It saves the family a fortune. Do you know what Preston Academy costs these days? It’s criminal.”

Julian shrugged, shoving a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. He was an average boy with average intelligence and an above-average sense of entitlement. “It’s not that hard, Grandpa. The teachers love me.”

My sister, Vanessa, smirked from across the centerpiece. She was thirty-six, two years older than me, and wore her insecurity like a jagged cloak. She sliced her steak with aggressive precision.

“Well, talent rises, Dad,” Vanessa said. “Julian is special. He has an executive mind. Unlike some kids who struggle with basic concepts.”

She cast a sideways glance at my daughter, Lily, who was sitting quietly next to me. Lily was twelve. She was small for her age, with ink stains on her fingers and a sketchbook permanently tucked under her arm.

I put the phone away and walked over to my daughter.

“Ready to go celebrate?” I asked.

“Yes!” Lily beamed. “Can we get ice cream?”

“We can get anything you want,” I said.

The End.