The next morning, Peter showed up with my parents.
“A neighbor caught the accident on camera,” he said, rubbing his temples. “The police are going to be involved.”
“And?” I asked.
Peter exchanged a look with our mother.
“We need you to tell them you were driving.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Nick doesn’t have a license,” my father said quietly. “If this goes on his record, it could mess up college. Jobs. His future.”
My mother reached for my hand. “You don’t have kids, Betty. You don’t understand how fragile a young man’s future can be.”
I understood perfectly.
They were asking me—again—to shrink. To absorb consequences that weren’t mine. To protect the golden child at my expense.
For a moment, I felt that familiar pull. The old instinct to smooth things over. To keep peace. To stay invisible.
Instead, I said, “Okay.”
Relief flooded their faces.
When the police officer arrived, Peter squeezed my shoulder like I was about to perform a noble sacrifice.
The officer asked calmly, “Who was driving the vehicle?”
I looked at Nick, who stood behind them, jaw tight but confident.
