Chapter 1

My family only realized I was part of the family after the money stopped coming in.

At 2:17 in the afternoon, I opened my banking app and canceled the automatic monthly transfer.

For six long years, I wired $500 on the dot every month. Not a single payment missed.

My mother, Taryn Foster, had never offered a single "thank you" for that money.

But an hour and forty minutes after I stopped it, my phone rang.

It was my mother.

A moment later, it was my brother, Larry Foster.

And then, it was my father, Finlay Foster.

For six years, they were ghosts. Now, for the first time, all three of them reached out on the exact same day.

*****

I didn't answer.

I counted. My phone vibrated seventeen times in total.

Finally, a text from Larry lit up the screen: [Dayana, Mom needs you to call her.]

There was no question mark. Not even a "How are you."

I flipped my phone over, face down on the desk, and went back to my spreadsheet.

I was an accountant, so numbers stuck with me.

I had never sat down to calculate the exact total I had given my family over the last six years.

But I knew the basics. My monthly take-home pay was $2,500. I sent them $500.

The remaining $2,000 had to cover my $850 rent, $150 for utilities and internet, and a $120 transit pass. That left me with less than $1,000 a month for myself.

Lunch was the cheapest twelve-dollar combo in the office cafeteria.

My skincare routine was a big bottle of drugstore lotion.

During the coldest days of winter, when the office heating was weak, I would wear three sweaters because I couldn't bring myself to buy a proper winter coat.

No one ever asked about these things. No one asked where I lived or how I was getting by.

When Larry got married, I gave them a two-thousand-dollar gift.

When Taryn had her gallbladder surgery, I covered twenty-eight hundred dollars of the bill.

When Larry was short on the down payment for his car, I gritted my teeth and handed over another three grand.

Every time, the reasoning was the same. "Larry, your sister has a job, so she can help you out."

And every time, my answer was the same. "Okay."

My phone buzzed again.

I picked it up. It was a voice message from Taryn. "Did you change your bank card? This month's money didn't come through."

Her voice was perfectly normal.

She wasn't worried about me.

Indeed, she was worried about the money.

I listened to it twice before I put the phone down and continued with my report.

The drive home brought three more missed calls. Two from Larry, one from Taryn.

Finlay didn't call again. After all, he had never initiated a phone call with me in my entire life.

Back home, I whipped up some pasta with an egg.

As I was eating, another text popped up.

Larry: [Dayana, Mom's asking if something is wrong with your bank account. You need to answer.]

I typed back one word: [No.]

Ten seconds passed. A question mark appeared from Larry.

Another ten seconds passed, and he replied: [So where's the money?]

I put my fork down and stared at that question.

It took six years for him to finally ask a question about me. It was "So where's the money?"

I didn't reply.

I shut off my phone and finished my pasta.

I washed the plates and slumped into the cheap folding chair, the best twenty bucks I had ever spent. Through the window, the neighbor's air conditioner buzzed against the night, the only sound in my cramped apartment.

The place was barely eighty square feet. I had lived here for four years, and not once had anyone ever knocked on this door.