“Where did this number come from?” I asked.

My father started to respond, but I raised my hand.

“I’m asking specifically,” I said calmly. “How did you calculate eighty-seven thousand four hundred dollars?”

“We kept records,” my mother said. “We’ve always kept records.”

“The apartment deposit in Portland,” I said. “Fourteen hundred dollars. I repaid that in November 2015 through a bank transfer. I still have the record.”

A short silence followed.

“There may be a few items that need reviewing,” my father said.

“There are more than a few,” I replied. “The car, for example. You contributed two thousand dollars toward an eleven-thousand-dollar car. I paid the remaining nine thousand myself and covered all payments afterward. You gave me help, which I appreciated—but you never described it as a loan.”

“We assumed that was understood,” my mother said.

“Understood by whom?”

She shifted toward the argument she had always used in moments like this.

“Caroline, after everything we’ve done for you—”

“Mom,” I said gently but firmly, using the same tone I used in boardrooms when a conversation needed to stay on track. “Let me finish reviewing the document before we discuss expectations.”

She stopped.

I continued reading. Tuition payments had been exaggerated to include entire semesters, though my scholarship and part-time work had covered most of them. Grocery expenses were listed roughly. A plane ticket from 2019 appeared without any proof it existed.

When I finished, I folded my hands.