“You have the authority to pay vendors, Martin,” my father said. “You do not have the authority to wire four million dollars to your daughter’s offshore account.”

The room fell completely silent.

The rain outside tapped against the glass of the high windows.

I looked at my mother, waiting for her to defend herself, but she just stared at the rug.

“Is this where the money for the lake house came from?” I asked.

My mother looked up at me, her eyes wide and wet.

“Sophie, please,” she said. “You don’t understand how these things work.”

“I understand that Dad worked eighty hours a week while you told me he was a lazy handyman,” I said.

“I did it for us,” she said, taking a step toward me. “I did it to secure our lives.”

“You did it to secure your own luxury,” my father said.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and crossed his arms.

“Every dollar you took from the firm was a dollar we could have used to expand our safety protocols,” my father said. “But you didn’t care about the workers. You just wanted the country club membership.”