He didn’t miss a beat. “Then it’s time, Joe. The Austin office is waiting. The firm is ready. When do you fly down?”
I should have said tonight. I should have said right now. Instead, I told him I needed to go home first. I needed to tell my family. I needed to see if the people I had been bankrolling for half of my life would offer me a chair at the table now that I couldn’t pay for the groceries.
Cliffhanger: As I turned the key in the ignition, I didn’t know that my family had already held a wake for my career—not out of grief for me, but out of panic for their own bank accounts.
The drive to Carterville was a forty-five-minute descent into a reality I wasn’t prepared for. I passed the Baptist church, the sprawling Walmart, and finally, the Sinclair mailbox at the end of a gravel driveway. I counted the cars parked in the yard like a general assessing enemy forces. My parents’ sedan, my sister Megan‘s SUV, Aunt Patty‘s old Buick, and the neighbor Mrs. Dawson‘s car.
Four cars meant an audience. An audience meant a spectacle.
I walked onto the porch, clutching my bag, rehearsing a version of the truth that sounded steady. I wanted to tell them it was a transition, a new beginning. I didn’t get the chance. The screen door hadn’t even latched behind me when Megan‘s voice drifted from the living room, sharp and vitriolic.
“So, is it true you got fired?”
She was perched on the recliner, her legs tucked under her, staring at her phone with a casual cruelty that made my stomach turn.
“Laid off,” I corrected, standing in the foyer. “There’s a distinction.”
“Whatever.” Megan turned her gaze toward our mother, Linda Sinclair, who was sitting on the sofa next to Aunt Patty. “Mom, I told you. Who’s going to subsidize my car loan now? I have a payment due Friday.”
The room went still. Mrs. Dawson sat in the armchair by the window, clutching her teacup with the rapt attention of someone watching a train wreck. My mother didn’t ask if I was okay. She didn’t ask how I was going to pay my own rent. She set her tea down with a soft clink that sounded like a gavel hitting a block.
“Joanna, sit,” my mother intoned. “We need to discuss the budget.”
“How did you already know?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
