She lowered the note.
“Mom wrote that?”
“She did.”
Dad touched the box.
“Remember how we cleaned this together? You spent weeks helping around the house because you wanted to contribute to fixing it.”
Amanda looked down.
“I remember cleaning it.”
“And do you remember your mother telling you that making a mistake didn’t make you a bad daughter?”
She nodded reluctantly.
“She said she loved me.”
“Yes. She loved you, and she still expected you to help make things right.”
Amanda pushed the note toward him.
“That’s different. Jessica’s car isn’t some priceless family heirloom.”
I felt that familiar sting.
“So my things don’t matter because they’re not expensive enough?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Amanda looked away.
Dad gently closed the box.
“Your mother didn’t care about the price when she explained why asking permission mattered. She cared about respect.”
Amanda started pacing.
