“You told me the doctor in Chicago needed the cash upfront,” he said.

My mother didn’t answer him.

She was staring at the yellow highlighted lines on the screen.

“Lauren sent me the lease agreement for the apartment in Brickell,” I said.

“Who is Lauren?” my father asked, his voice cracking.

“Megan’s roommate,” I said. “The one she told you was her nurse.”

I pulled up a scanned copy of a lease, signed by Megan, with a monthly rent of thirty-two hundred dollars.

“She wasn’t in a clinic, Dad,” I said. “She was living three blocks from the beach.”

My mother lunged across the table, her fingernails scraping the plastic case of my laptop.

She tried to slam the lid down, but I caught her wrist.

My hand was strong from years of pulling wire through conduit, and she couldn’t move.

“Don’t,” I said.

“You are destroying this family!” she screamed, her face turning a deep, mottled red.

“The truth is destroying it,” I said.

I released her wrist, and she stumbled back, chest heaving.

My father hadn’t moved.