Still, everyone in the room quietly turned toward the person they had always expected to stay.
I looked at Dad.
His white hair. His bent shoulders. His trembling hands trying to put the papers back in order.
He looked embarrassed.
That was what undid me.
Not the number.
The shame on his face.
This was the man who taught me to change a tire in the rain so I would never have to beg strangers for help.
I asked for the pen.
Sarah looked at me. She did not smile or pretend it was noble. Under the table, she squeezed my knee once—hard enough to tell me she was terrified, but not hard enough to make me feel alone.
At 6:43 p.m., I signed as guarantor.
Michael called it brave.
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