“Andrew told us you hung up on him when he tried to call you for Christmas,” my mother said.

“He had a call log,” she added, her voice desperate for some explanation that made sense.

“He showed us the call log on his phone.”

“He spoofed my number,” I said.

“He called his own secondary line from a burner phone, then labeled the contact as my name.”

“It was a coordinated effort to keep us apart.”

“The longer we were estranged, the more you relied on him for financial advice and emotional support.”

My father closed the folder with a heavy, final thud.

The sound seemed to echo in the small room.

He looked up at me, his eyes clouded with a deep, systemic regret.

“We believed him,” my father said.

“He was the family man.”

“He was the one who was always there, helping us with the chores, taking us to dinner.”

“And you were always just a voice on a bad phone line, or a name in an email.”

“I was doing my job, Dad,” I said gently.

“I know,” he said.