The kitchen was too bright, the fluorescent light harsh against your tired eyes. Your parents sat opposite you, their expressions tight.

“Look at your brother,” your mother said quietly but firmly. “He’s working two jobs and taking college seriously. What do you do?”

You bit your lip. “I’m doing what I can.”

“Can’t,” your father corrected. “You don’t even try anymore.”

You shook your head. “That’s not true.”

“It is. And these scars…” Your mother gestured vaguely at your arms. “It worries us.”

You stared down at the table. “I’m dealing with things in my own way.”

They exchanged a look. “We want to help,” your father said. “But you keep shutting us out.”

“I’m not shutting you out. I just… don’t want your help.”