The space was small, the walls closing in on her.

She saw the evidence on the laptop.

She saw the photos on the table.

She saw the phone in our father’s hand.

The lies had run out of room.

“Tell him, Mom,” Megan said.

Her voice was suddenly venomous.

My mother froze.

She looked at Megan with a pleading expression.

“Megan, don’t,” my mother whispered.

“No,” Megan said, taking a step forward.

She pointed her finger directly at our mother.

“I’m not taking the fall for this alone.”

“You knew everything.”

“You were the one who told me to keep it going.”

My father did not move.

His hand stayed wrapped around the laminate edge of my kitchen table, his knuckles white against the fake wood.

The radiator beneath the window hissed, a sharp, metallic sound that filled the silence.

“What did you say?” my father asked.

His voice was very quiet now, quieter than the wind rattling the loose storm windows.

Megan crossed her arms, her chin tilting upward in a gesture I had seen her use since she was a child.