Sunday afternoons were supposed to be safe.
For most of her childhood, they had been. The one day when her father came home early, her mother cooked too much, and they all squished around the little table in Flushing and pretended the world was small and manageable.
Then the letter had come.
After that, Sundays had become something else. A performance of normalcy atop a pit of anxiety.
Now, Margot stood on the cracked sidewalk outside her parents’ house, clutching a bakery box and a knot of dread.
The air smelled like car exhaust and scallion pancakes from the cart on the corner. Kids shouted in rapid-fire Mandarin down the block. A plane droned overhead, low on approach to LaGuardia.
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and rang the bell.
Her mother opened the door almost instantly, like she’d been waiting behind it.
“My baby!” she exclaimed, pulling Margot into a hug that smelled like garlic and jasmine tea. “So skinny. You working too much. Come, come, soup is ready.”
“I’m not skinny,” Margot protested automatically. “You say that no matter what.”
Her mother tsked, eyeing her up and down. “Your face thinner. Stress. New job stress. Bad for complexion. You must do the mask I gave you. The snail one. Very good.”
“I’m literally working for a man whose company optimizes supply chains,” Margot said, toes slipping out of her heels as she stepped inside. “Snails feel… off-brand.”
“If snails make you pretty, they are on-brand,” her mother said firmly. “Take off your coat, put cake in kitchen. Your father pretending to read paper but really waiting to pounce.”
From the living room, her father called, “I heard that.”
She smiled despite the tension in her chest.
Her parents’ house was a time capsule. The same plastic-covered couch. The same framed scroll with calligraphy reading *Jiā hé wàn shì xīng*—When the family is harmonious, all things prosper. The same slightly crooked wedding photo of them, young and hopeful, in matching cream.
She carried the mango cake box into the kitchen, set it on the worn counter, and turned.
Her father stood in the doorway, trying and failing to look casual.
“Hi, Baba,” she said.
He grunted, then opened his arms.
She stepped into the hug.
He held her fiercely for a second, then patted her back awkwardly, like he’d done since she was twelve and first shot past his shoulder.
“You working too hard,” he said into her hair.
“So I’ve heard,” she said.
He pulled back, peering at her. “New job good?”
She hesitated. “It’s… big.”
He snorted. “Big. Everything in America must be big. Big job, big car, big house. Then big debt.”
His gaze slid, almost involuntarily, toward the small pile of unopened mail on the counter.
Her stomach clenched.
“So,” she said, deliberately light. “Ma said you have some ‘small bank form’ for me to look at. Just a tiny, not-at-all-serious thing, right?”
Her mother, ladling soup into bowls, made a noncommittal noise.
Her father’s jaw worked. “Eat first.”
“Baba,” Margot said, gentler. “If there’s a problem—”
“Eat first,” he repeated, more sharply. “We don’t talk business on empty stomach. Bad luck.”
She caught her mother’s eye.
Her mother’s expression said, *Let him have this.*
Fine.
She forced herself to sit, to smile, to eat the steaming fish soup and the dumplings her mother piled in her bowl. She asked about her aunt’s hip, her cousin’s baby, the neighbor’s dog who barked through the night.
They answered. They laughed. They argued about the Mets.
It was almost normal.
Almost.
After they’d cleared the dishes—her mother shooing her away from the sink twice before giving up—her father disappeared into his little office off the hallway.
When he came back, he held a manila envelope. It was already crumpled at one corner.
He set it on the table like it was something that might explode.
Margot’s chest tightened.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Refinance,” he said gruffly. “For shop. Bank say interest rate go up. They ‘adjustment.’ I sign, I pay more every month. I don’t sign…” He shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe they… adjust something else.”
She slid the envelope toward her, pulled out the papers.
Her fingers shook, just slightly.
She read.
Ten pages. Dense language. Numbers that made her eyes sting.
It wasn’t a refinance.
It was a restructuring of his line of credit. Higher interest. Shorter term. New covenants.
And a clause, buried on page seven, that gave the bank the right to call the loan with thirty days’ notice if they deemed his “financial situation materially adverse.”
“For how long has it been like this?” she asked, voice tight.
“Couple months,” he said. “Nothing big. Just… more letters. More fees. You know banks. Always want something.”
“You didn’t tell me,” she said.
“You busy,” he said. “New job. Big boss. I don’t want you worry.”
She closed her eyes briefly.
“You think I won’t worry if you lose the shop without telling me?” she asked quietly.
His shoulders hunched.
Her mother hovered, twisting a dish towel between her hands.
“It’s my business,” he muttered. “My mistake. I fix.”
Anger flared, mixed with a fierce, helpless love.
“This isn’t about mistakes,” she said. “This is about a system designed to squeeze the last dollar out of small businesses like yours until you break. You didn’t do this, Baba. NexTelis did. The bank did. The politicians who let them write the rules did.”
He looked at her, startled. “Who is NexTelis?”
She froze.
Her mother’s head snapped up.
Damn.
She hadn’t meant to say the name.
Or maybe she had.
Maybe she’d wanted to rip the bandage off.
Her heart pounded.
She could lie. Say it was a metaphor. An example.
Or she could finally, after twelve years, say the words.
She swallowed.
“They’re a big company,” she said slowly. “Infrastructure. Manufacturing. Energy. They… bought out your client. The one who dropped you.”
His face went slack.
“You remember,” he whispered.
“I never forgot,” she said.
He looked away, eyes shiny. His hand came up, rubbed his chest, like something hurt there.
Her mother moved quickly, sitting beside him, her small hand on his big one.
“Hǎo le,” she murmured. “Don’t think about them. Bad luck. Karma will get them. You focus on now.”
“How much is left on the loan?” Margot asked, voice steadyed by sheer will.
Her father muttered a number.
Her brain did the math automatically. His monthly payments. Their margin. Their age.
If the bank enforced this, they could choke him out in under a year.
“Do not sign this,” she said firmly, tapping the paper.
He bristled. “What choice do I have? They—”
“You *do* have a choice,” she said. “You always have a choice. It just might not be one you like. Let me talk to someone. Look at options. There are community lenders. Nonprofits. Programs.”
He snorted. “Americans like to say programs. Make them feel better when poor people suffer.”
She sat back, fighting despair.
He wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Let me try,” she said quietly. “Please.”
“Margot—”
“It’s my turn,” she said, throat tight. “You spent your whole life taking hits for us. Let me take one for you.”
He looked at her, eyes wet.
“You already do,” he said. “All these years. Rent, tuition, the time you paid the gas bill when I forgot. I’m not… I don’t want to…” His voice cracked. “I should be the one helping *you*.”
“You are,” she said. “You taught me how to work. How to fight. How to stand up in rooms with men who think they own the world and not flinch. That’s… everything.”
He blinked rapidly.
Her mother sniffed, wiping at her eyes with the dish towel. “You two. Always so dramatic. Eat cake. Sugar makes everything better.”
It didn’t. But they ate it anyway.
After dessert, while her parents debated which drama to watch that night, Margot slipped into the tiny office.
Old ledgers lined the shelves. A faded photo of her father in front of his first machine shop, younger, prouder. A stack of trade magazines.
She sat in the squeaky chair and pulled out her phone.
Her fingers hovered over her email app.
She could call a generic helpline. Google community lenders. Start at square one.
Or—
She exhaled, hard.
Or she could use the access she’d just spent a week earning.
She opened a new message.
> To: D. Hale > Subject: A personal ask
She stared at the blank body.
Every rule in her book screamed *Don’t do it*.
Don’t mix. Don’t blur. Don’t bring your mess to your boss’s door.
She typed anyway.
> Declan, > > I know we haven’t addressed this explicitly, but I’m assuming you’re not working tonight because I blocked your calendar and you said you’d “try obeying orders once.” > > I need to ask you something that is not strictly professional, but is related to the fallout from NexTelis’s history. > > My father’s shop is under pressure from his bank. They’re “restructuring” his line of credit in a way that seems designed to push him into default within the year. I don’t expect you to fix this. I won’t ask you for money. But I would appreciate a pointer toward any resources or people who specialize in helping small manufacturers negotiate with banks from a position that isn’t total powerlessness. > > I understand if you’d rather keep a wall between our respective families’ financial pain and your inbox. I’m only asking because you see patterns I don’t and know players I’ll never meet. > > – M
She hovered over send.
Her thumb shook.
She hit the button.
The message whooshed away.
Her heart lurched after it.
She dropped the phone on the desk and pressed her palms over her eyes.
“Stupid,” she muttered. “So stupid.”
“Talking to yourself?” her father said from the doorway.
She jumped. “Baba, you scared me.”
He shuffled in, leaning on the doorframe. “You always talk to yourself when you do something brave. Or crazy.”
She managed a weak smile. “Sometimes they’re the same.”
He grunted. “Your boss. He’s… good man?”
She thought of Declan’s eyes when he’d said, *I don’t want to be that guy.* Of the way he’d insisted on blocking Sunday night.
“He’s trying,” she said. “To be.”
Her father nodded slowly. “Then he is good. Bad men don’t try.”
“That’s… debatable,” she said.
He waved a hand. “Eh. Philosophy. Too late in day.”
She laughed.
He looked at her for a long moment.
“You know,” he said quietly, “when you were little, I thought you would be artist. Always drawing. Always imagining. Then you grow up and become… boss of bosses.” He smiled, brief and crooked. “Scary like your mother. Smart like me. Dangerous combination.”
Her chest burned.
“I’m not a boss,” she said. “Just the person bosses call when they’re about to screw up.”
“Same thing,” he said. “You hold their leash.”
She choked on a laugh. “Please don’t ever say that to my mother.”
He sobered.
“I’m proud of you,” he said. “Even if I don’t understand… scheduling.”
Tears pricked her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with emotion.
“Go home,” he said gruffly. “Sleep. Don’t think about old men and banks. Tomorrow, you boss your boss. That is your gift.”
She smiled, watery.
“Yes, Baba,” she said.
***
The email sat in Declan’s inbox for thirteen minutes before he opened it.
He’d sworn—out loud, to Dr. Kline—that he’d take Sunday off. No work. No models. No board decks.
He’d even left his laptop at the office on purpose.
But his phone was another story.
He sat on his couch, bare feet on the coffee table, a half-eaten bowl of pasta going cold beside him, and scrolled.
The news. The markets. A science article about grid resilience.
His thumb flicked almost automatically to his mail app.
One hundred twenty-three unread.
He told himself he’d just skim the subject lines. Nothing else.
Then he saw: *A personal ask.*
From Margot.
His chest tightened.
He opened it.
He read it once.
Twice.
By the third time, he’d stopped seeing the words as text and started seeing them as an overlay of his models.
Small manufacturer. Bank leverage. Loan restructuring. Covenant traps.
He rubbed his jaw, mind spinning.
He could hear her voice in his head. *I won’t ask you for money.*
Good. That would have been… untenable.
But this he could do.
Not himself. He was too… big. His shadow would warp any conversation with a community bank.
But he knew people who operated at different scales. Quietly. Effectively.
He opened a new email.
> To: Margot > Subject: Re: A personal ask > > I’m working on not working tonight, so this will be brief. > > 1. You were right not to let your father sign anything without review. Those clauses are designed to extract maximum yield in minimum time. (Yes, I’m making this about systems. You’d be disappointed if I didn’t.) > > 2. I can’t intervene directly without creating conflicts I don’t want. But I know someone who specializes in small business workouts on the *other* side of the power equation. > > Her name is Priya Shah. She runs a fund that buys distressed small-business loans from banks and restructures them on terms humans can live with. She’s not a savior. She expects returns. But she plays fair. > > If you’re okay with it, I’ll send her your father’s situation (no names yet) and see if she’s interested in looking. > > If you’re not okay with it, say so. I won’t push. This is your family. Your call. > > D.
He hit send before he could overthink.
Then, impulsively, he added another line.
> P.S. Asking for help is not a weakness. It’s… efficient.
He winced at himself.
Too late.
He tossed the phone on the cushion and scrubbed his hands over his face.
He was getting involved.
Not financially. Not directly.
But still.
Lines.
He thought of her in that tiny Queens kitchen, arguing with her father, protecting and resenting and loving him all at once.
He knew that feeling.
His own father had never been squeezed by banks. That was the privilege of being rich before you built something.
But emotional leverage… he knew that intimately.
His phone buzzed.
> Declan, > > Thank you. > > I’m okay with you reaching out to Priya, as long as you don’t share identifying details without my say-so. (I’ll get you the numbers tomorrow.) > > And for the record, asking you for help is absolutely a weakness. But I’m learning to live with some. > > – M
He stared at the line.
*I’m learning to live with some.*
His chest did that too-tight, too-loose thing again.
He typed back.
> Understood. No names without consent. > > Weakness is just another input. We can optimize for it. > > D.
He dropped the phone again.
On the TV, a nature documentary murmured about wolves.
He wasn’t listening.
In his head, the thirty-day clock ticked.
NexTelis. Board. Regulators.
And now: Margot’s father’s debt.
Fault lines everywhere.
He wasn’t sure which one would crack first.
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