“And you knew.”

My mother’s face hardened, the pleading look vanishing, replaced by something cold and sharp.

“He owed us,” she said, her voice dropping its soft edge.

“He got his license, he got his union job, and he left us in that damp house.”

“Megan was the only one who stayed.”

“Because you paid her to stay,” Megan spat.

“With his money.”

“And with Dad’s pension.”

She walked over to the kitchen counter and picked up her leather purse, slinging it over her shoulder with an easy, fluid motion.

“I’m going to Chicago,” Megan said.

“The ticket is booked for tomorrow morning.”

“Megan, no,” my mother cried, reaching out to grab her arm.

Megan shook her off easily, her strength surprising even me.

“Don’t touch me, Mom,” she said.

“I’m done playing the cripple for you.”

“I’m done sitting in that dark living room listening to you complain about Dad.”

My father stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the small stack of medical receipts I had printed out.

The room felt incredibly small, the air thick with the smell of old wool and betrayal.