“You do not understand.”
“Then explain.”
My mother looked at me then, and the worst part was that she did not look sorry.
She looked inconvenienced.
Cornered.
Angry that the facts had chosen a public place to come alive.
“Alba needed help,” she said.
“Paris is expensive.
Her program required appearances, travel, proper clothing.
You know how those circles are.
One bad impression can ruin everything.”
I felt something inside me go cold.
“So you took my money?”
“I redistributed support,” she snapped, then caught herself and lowered her voice.
“Your sister had a real opportunity.
You had a job.”
My father’s hand closed around the phone.
“She had two jobs,” he said.
