"Anca," Mom said. "Don't."
"All of it?" Grandpa said.
"Twelve-eighty," I said. "It's what's left."
Mom stood up. "Dad, please don't. This is between me and her. I've been over it. It's the only way, okay? You know what the refund situation is. You know what Dalton's doing. I'm going to pay it back. I'm writing it down. I'm the parent here and I made a decision, and I need you to not come into my kitchen and make me the bad guy for it. Please. I'm asking."
Grandpa put the check down on the counter next to the stove. He put it down carefully, the way he did everything with his hands now, so it wouldn't slip. The timer said six minutes.
"Mirela," he said. He used her whole name, which he almost never did. Usually he called her Mira, or puiule, which is what you call a baby chicken in Romanian, which she pretended to hate. "I am not making anybody a bad guy. I want you to know one thing before you decide. One thing. She earned every dollar."
"I know she earned it, Dad. I know. That's not the point."
"No," he said. "You don't know. I am not saying she worked hard. I know you know she worked hard. I am saying every dollar. Every one. The ones in that account, and the ones that are not in that account anymore."
Mom looked at him.
"What does that mean," she said.
Grandpa looked at me. I looked at the stove.