Page 11 of Wanna Bet?

He started in on the usual things: how she should visit more, how she worked too much, how she didn't work enough, how moving to the city had “changed her.” Somehow, it looped back–like it always did–to the old argument that she should’ve stayed closer to home, should’ve picked something more stable, should’ve listened.

Should’ve.

Should’ve.

Should’ve.

Each one pressed into her like a bruise.

“I’m doing fine,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I pay my rent. I’m not struggling.”

“That’s not the point, Samyah. You don’t think long-term. You never have. You just chase whatever feels good in the moment.”

That one hit harder than the rest, because he didn’t even know. He didn’t know how carefully she budgeted groceries, how she skipped takeout to save money, how she lay awake some nights calculating emergency funds and worst-case scenarios. He didn’t know how hard she tried.

“You don’t even know what I do all day,” she said, sharper than she meant to.

“I know enough.”

Her chest tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re being defensive.”

“Because you’re being–” She stopped herself, breathing in slowly through her nose. “Because you’re not listening.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and ugly. Then he sighed. “You always take things so personally. I’m just trying to help you grow up.”

Something inside her snapped.

“I’m twenty-four. I am grown up,” she said, her voice shaking now. “I moved across the country by myself. I support myself. I handle my own stuff. You don’t get to talk to me like I’m fifteen.”

“Oh, don’t start this again–”

“I have to go,” she said suddenly.

“What–”

“I have to go. I’m busy.”

“You just said it was your day off.”

She hated that he caught that. “Bye, Dad.”

She hung up before he could respond and she noticed that her hands were trembling by the time the screen went dark.

The kitchen suddenly felt too small and too loud, full of everything she hadn’t said. She stared at the phone like it might start yelling at her again and pressed her palms into the counter, forcing herself to breathe.

Okay. Spiraling at nine in the morning is not the vibe. She wasn’t going to waste her day off feeling like a scolded teenager. She needed something grounding. Something that felt like hers.

Her gaze drifted to the milk crate beside the couch, full of records, the corners worn and sleeves softened from use. Music had always been the one thing that made the world quieter and more manageable.

Her dad had never really understood that part. He thought it was a hobby, a phase. She knew it was oxygen.

Her eyes caught on the empty space she’d left in the crate last week, a little gap waiting to be filled.

A new record. Yeah, that would help.

She’d walk to the shop, browse for a while, maybe find something weird and old and dusty and perfect. Retail therapy, but make it vinyl.