It came out flat and dead. My father shifted uncomfortably.

“We know it’s tragic, Maya,” my mother said, waving a hand as if brushing away a fly. “But life goes on for the living. We gave you everything growing up.

We paid for your state college. We let you use our old car. Now your brother is in a real bind, and you’re hoarding money out of spite because we couldn’t catch a last-minute flight from St. Lucia.”

“You booked that vacation four days after the accident,” I whispered.

Her jaw tightened. “The tickets were non-refundable! And frankly, the atmosphere here would have been suffocating. We chose to celebrate life instead of wallowing.

Now open your checkbook.”