Dad pulled into the apartment complex lot and parked directly behind the car in question, the one I had been making payments on, the one Sharon had decided was hers to control. He didn’t storm out. He sat for a moment, looking at the vehicle, then at me. “Is the title in Trevor’s name, or the loan?” he asked quietly. “The loan,” I said. “I signed for it. It’s my credit. It’s my name on every payment.” Something in his face settled, the way it did when he found the exact wire that had been causing a problem the whole time.

Sharon must have seen the truck from the window, because she came out onto the second-floor walkway with her arms crossed before we even reached the door. “Bethany, what is this?” she called down, already sharpening her voice. Then she saw my father, and she hesitated, just for a second. Dad looked up at her, calm as still water, and said the sentence I had been too frightened to say for months. “Ma’am, my daughter has been walking home in the heat with an infant while paying for a car sitting right there. We’re here to correct that. Tonight.”