Megan made a sudden movement toward the table.

She tried to grab the photos.

I caught her wrist.

Her arm was strong.

There was no weakness in her muscles, no tremor like the ones she used to show us at Sunday dinners.

“Let go of me,” she hissed.

“Let her go!” my mother screamed.

My mother lunged forward and slapped my hand away from Megan.

“You’ve always been jealous of her,” my mother cried, pointing a finger at me.

“From the day she was born, you hated how much we had to care for her.”

“She lied to us for ten years, Mom,” I said.

“Look at the screen.”

“Look at the bank statements.”

My mother didn’t look.

She kept her back to the laptop, shielding Megan with her body.

“It doesn’t matter,” my mother said.

“She’s your sister.”

“We do what we have to do for family.”

My father stood up.

He was a tall man, but he seemed small now, his shoulders hunched.

His hands were flat on the table, supporting his weight.

“You knew,” he said to my mother.

The room went completely silent.