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There was a rustling sound, then my mother returned. “We’re just concerned because you’re twenty-six, and you don’t seem settled.”

Settled.

My parents used the word in the same way real estate listings used charming. It could mean anything as long as the speaker didn’t have to provide specifics.

“I have an apartment,” I said. “I have clients. I’m working.”

“But you’re still freelancing.”

“Yes. That’s work.”

“I know it’s work, Sloane. I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m only saying it lacks predictability.”

The irony of being lectured about predictability from two people who’d changed countries three times since Monday did not escape me.

My mother continued before I could point that out. “Are you still thinking about applying to that marketing firm you’d mentioned to us?”

“They rejected me six months ago.”

“Oh. Was that the one?”

“Yes.”

“What about the other one?”

“They also rejected me.”

“Well, perhaps your portfolio needs more polish.”

My eyes moved toward the client projects stacked across my monitors. Branding packages. Event posters. Logos. Social templates. Website mockups. A menu for a restaurant that had changed its concept twice without changing its deadline.

“My portfolio is polished.”

“I’m sure it is. I’m only suggesting there’s always room to improve.”

There it was. The family motto.

Always room to improve.

I had spent most of my life inhabiting that room. It had no windows, no chairs, and apparently no exit.

The cupcake recipe stole my attention from my parents’ lecture. Flour. Sugar. Butter. Eggs. Ingredients that became what they were supposed to become when combined correctly.

“Actually,” I said, before courage had time to reconsider, “I was going to ask you something.”

My mother hesitated. “What is it?”

“I’m a little short this month.” The admission scraped against everything in me. I hated asking for help, but I hated needing help more.

“How short?” my father asked. My mother must have put me on speaker.

“Not much. Two of my clients paid late, and all my software subscriptions renewed at once. I’m waiting on three invoices, but my rent is due before any of them will clear.”

“How much do you need?” Mom asked.

Hope rose too quickly. Maybe they’d actually help me this time.

“Maybe five hundred. I could pay you back as soon as the invoices come in.”