My father’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick to Travis like he’s checking whether he’s even allowed to speak.
And when Travis notices, he laughs.
“Oh, don’t start with the drama,” Travis says, waving a hand. “They’re tired. Let them rest.”
I turn my head slowly and stare at him.
“Don’t speak for them,” I say.
Travis’s smile slips for half a second.
Then it comes back, sharper.
“You always thought you were better than everybody else,” he says. “You left town acting like you were too good for this place. Now you come back in that fancy suit to judge us.”
My hands clench.
This isn’t about pride. It’s about stolen years.
I take another step, close enough now to smell him: cheap cologne, stale cigarettes, and the scent of a man who spent my money on comfort while my parents slept on the floor.
“You managed their accounts,” I say. “You told me you’d help with the bank. You said you’d make sure they had everything they needed.”
Travis’s eyes flash. “And I did,” he snaps. “I paid bills. Bought groceries. Fixed things.”
I gesture at the cracked walls and the leaking ceiling.
“This?” I say. “This is what you fixed?”
His mouth tightens.
For the first time, he looks angry enough to drop the mask.