I remember that day vividly, the tension in the car thick enough to cut with a knife.
Dad was driving, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel, while I stared out the window, fuming.
The rhythm of the tires on the road didn’t calm me; it just amplified the silence between our arguments.
“Why do I have to do this on my day off?” I snapped, crossing my arms. “Couldn’t you have taken a taxi or asked a friend?”
Dad shot me a look, his voice sharp.
“Lucy! How can you say that? Your mother needs help! Isn’t it too much to ask for you to help her pack her things?”