“Figures.” Darla shoved the door open and ran up the walkway. She fumbled in her jacket pocket for her keys, finding the money her father had left there to pay her for babysitting. It was far more than she’d really earned. She was crying in earnest now, and she tossed the money angrily into the snow. She got the door open, the warmth and familiar smell of home a dubious welcome, shrugging off her jacket and throwing her backpack in the foyer.

“Hey, Darla.” Her father peeked his head inside and she turned her back to him, not wanting him to see her puffy eyes. “You dropped this, honey.”

“I didn’t drop it,” she said lowly.

“Isn’t this your babysitting money?” His voice was right behind her now.

She could feel the chill from the outside that he carried with him.

“Yes, but I didn’t drop it. I threw it there,” she snarled, moving away from him and flopping onto the couch, crossing her arms over her chest and lowering her head to let her hair hide her face.

“Why?” He sounded genuinely confused. She struggled with a response, trying to speak around the tightness in her throat. How can he not know, how can he not see?

“I don’t want your money.” It was barely a whisper.

“What was that, sweetie?” He was sitting next to her on the couch, moving to brush her hair away from her face.

She jerked away, hissing. “I don’t want your money!” She shoved at him and moved to stand. She was off balance and he grabbed her arm to help steady her.

“Hey, hey.” He held both of her wrists now as she struggled to get away.

“Come here.” He pulled her toward him and although she resisted at first, she finally relented and let him settle her onto his lap.

She repeated it over and over under her breath, like a mantra to keep her from breaking down entirely, “I don’t want your money.”

“Ok, ok,” he murmured. “What do you want, honey?”