“You should be proud that we trust you to stand on your own two feet.”

Chelsea didn’t look up from her phone, where she was already taking pictures of her new car key to post online.

“Your father spent weeks picking out that bank for you,” my mother added softly, smoothing her cardigan again.

“He wanted it to be something practical.”

At ten fifteen, I carried the blue plastic piggy bank upstairs, stepped into the hallway bathroom, and turned the brass lock until it clicked.

Downstairs, Chelsea’s breathless voice drifted up through the floor vent.