Mom's voice sharpened with urgency. "If you're not making dinner, where do you think you're going?"

My throat was still tight. "Out. I need some air."

I'd barely reached the doorway when Val called after me.

I stopped. Turned around.

His eyes were bright, brimming with excitement.

"Priscilla Perez, you haven't signed yet. Sign first before you go."

I was fifteen years older than Val. I'd raised him with my own two hands. Those years had been brutal. But whenever I saw that bright, innocent smile of his, all the bitterness and exhaustion faded away.

Not anymore. His smile couldn't thaw the cold that had settled in my chest.

"I'm not getting any money," I said. "I don't need to sign. You three signing is enough."

Val blinked those wide, guileless eyes. "That won't work. You still need to write a statement waiving your claim to the demolition money."

He was the most educated one in our family, after all. Always a step ahead of the others.

I didn't move. "Does it matter whether I write it or not?"

Sylvester stood up. "Priscilla, this is all Mom's arrangement. You're not mad at Mom, are you?"

Was I mad? I wasn't sure "mad" was the right word. There was just this unbearable tightness in my chest, and my head felt like it was filled with fog.

I hesitated for a moment before answering. "No."

Pat turned to Mom. "Mom, maybe we should give Priscilla some of the money."

Sylvester shot her a glare. "You want to share, share from yours. I finally have enough to stop renting. I'm counting on this money to buy a house and pay for my son's school."

Val raised his hand. "I'm not taking the civil service exam anymore. I'm going to use this money to start a business."

Pat's lips moved, but she said nothing, her head dropping again.

Sylvester looked at me.

"Priscilla, I think Val has a point. You really should put something in writing."

"Write what?"

"That you're giving up your share of the demolition money. Obviously."

I laughed. I didn't even know why.

I took a deep breath.

"Fine. I'll write it."

I walked over to my mother, crouched beside her, and wrote a single line:

I voluntarily relinquish all claim to the eight-million-dollar demolition compensation.

Then, stroke by careful stroke, I signed my name: Priscilla Perez.

I set down the pen and looked at them.

"Can I go now?"

Mom smiled and nodded, her tone as casual as any other day.