Megan let out another wet, shuddering sob, burying her face deeper into the yellow wool of our mother’s cardigan.

The sweater was old, the wool pilling and frayed at the cuffs.

“She has a severe mitral valve condition, Sarah,” my mother said, using my name like a physical push.

“The specialist said she could collapse at any moment.”

“The doctors in Cleveland haven’t seen her in three years,” I said.

“Because she’s been living in a two-bedroom condo in Lincoln Park with a guy named Tyler.”

My father shifted in his armchair.

The old brown vinyl hissed as the air escaped the cushion.

“Megan,” he whispered, his eyes staring blankly at the floor.

“Is that where you were?”

“Don’t listen to her, Arthur,” my mother snapped, not looking at him.

She slid the deed transfer document across the table, placing it directly over the printed photos.

The paper was thick and white, a sharp contrast to the scarred oak of the coffee table.

“Sign the papers, Sarah,” my mother said.

“We agreed. This apartment belongs to your sister now so she has a place to live while she recovers.”