Frank snorted.
“People argue about everything,” he said. “They argue because it’s easier than changing.”
I stared at the page.
Then I said something that made my throat tighten.
“I don’t want to be broke forever,” I whispered.
Frank didn’t laugh. He didn’t roll his eyes.
He put his hand on the table near mine—not touching, just close enough.
“You won’t be,” he said. “Not if you stop pretending you’re rich.”
That line was so sharp it could’ve cut glass.
And it made me think of something I’d never admitted to myself.
How much of my spending wasn’t about comfort.
It was about image.
About not looking like I was failing.
About keeping up with people who looked like they were doing fine while secretly drowning too.
About buying the illusion of adulthood.
I swallowed hard.
Upstairs, the house creaked again, settling into the night.
Frank stood up and turned the TV back on.
The news anchor was talking about prices, about tension, about a country arguing with itself.
Frank watched for a moment, then muttered, “They keep people mad so they don’t look up.”
I glanced at him.
That sentence could’ve started a whole political fight on its own.
But Frank didn’t say it like a partisan.