“She knew,” Megan said, her finger still aimed at our mother’s chest.

“She knew the whole time.”

My mother shrank back against the hallway doorframe, her hand rising to cover her collarbone.

“Megan, please,” my mother whispered, her eyes darting toward me, then back to my father.

“Don’t do this to our family.”

“What family?” Megan scoffed.

She took a step closer to the table, her gait steady and even, completely devoid of the limp she had performed for half a decade.

“The family where I have to play dead just so you have someone to take care of?”

I stood by the counter, my work boots feeling heavy and cold on the linoleum floor.

My chest felt tight, the smell of my father’s damp wool coat mixing with the stale scent of the coffee I had brewed hours ago.

Lauren sat silently on my small sofa, her eyes fixed on the linoleum, her fingers tightly laced together.

“Arthur, she’s lying,” my mother said, her voice cracking as she reached out toward my father.

“She’s confused.”

“I am not confused, Mom,” Megan said, her voice flat and cold.