I told everyone to leave.
“A neighbor caught the accident on camera,” he said, rubbing his temples.
“The police are going to be involved.”
“And?” I asked.
Peter exchanged a look with our mother.
“We need you to tell them you were driving.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Nick doesn’t have a license,” my father said quietly. “If this goes on his record, it could mess up college.
Jobs. His future.”
My mother reached for my hand. “You don’t have kids, Betty.
You don’t understand how fragile a young man’s future can be.”
I understood perfectly.
They were asking me—again—to shrink. To absorb consequences that weren’t mine. To protect the golden child at my expense.
For a moment, I felt that familiar pull.
The old instinct to smooth things over. To keep peace. To stay invisible.
For full cooking steps, turn to the next page or click the Open button (>) and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
