“My knees are ruined because of those stairs.”

He pointed a thick, calloused finger at her face.

“And you knew,” he said.

“You knew the whole time.”

My mother did not look away, though her cheeks flushed red.

“She was depressed, Arthur,” she said.

“She couldn’t handle the pressure of the world.”

“So you let her pretend she was dying?” he asked.

His voice cracked on the words.

“You let her take our money?” he asked.

“You let her take her sister’s money?”

He gestured toward me with a trembling hand.

I stood completely still by the kitchen counter.

My palm rested near the toaster, the cold chrome biting into my skin.

Outside, a truck rumbled down the wet Cleveland street, spraying gray slush against the curb.

“We gave her everything,” my father whispered.

“I didn’t have a choice,” my mother said.

“There is always a choice,” he said.

“She came to me crying, Arthur,” she said.

“She said she couldn’t do it anymore.”

“The college, the jobs, the expectations,” she added.

“She said she wanted to disappear.”