“I kept everything, Dan.”

I turned another page.

This one held a printed email from a septic service company, along with a glossy photograph.

“September 2020,” I said. “The weekend of Sarah’s engagement party.”

Sarah stiffened, her hand going to the gold chain around her throat.

“The toilets backed up because someone flushed baby wipes down the guest bath,” I said.

“The plumber had to dig up the yard on a Sunday morning.”

“That cost fifteen hundred dollars.”

“I asked you all who did it, and you laughed and said it was old plumbing.”

I looked directly at Sarah.

“But the plumber gave me the wipes he pulled out of the line.”

“They were the expensive, lavender-scented brand you brought in your suitcase, Sarah.”

Sarah’s cheeks turned a bright, blotchy red.

She looked at her mother, then back at the binder.

“I didn’t know it would break the system,” Sarah whispered.

“You knew,” I said. “You just didn’t care because you weren’t paying the bill.”

I turned the page again.

A receipt for a new riding lawnmower engine.