My mother wiped a stray tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.

“I couldn’t let her do that,” she said.

“So you helped her build a cage,” my father said.

“A very expensive cage,” he added.

“And you let me pay for it.”

“You were always so hard on her,” my mother countered.

Her voice grew sharper, defensive.

“If she got a B, you wanted an A,” she said.

“If she got a job, you wanted her promoted immediately.”

“She couldn’t breathe under your thumb,” she said.

“So you decided to lie to me for seven years?” my father asked.

“Ten years,” I said.

The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Both of them turned to look at me.

“Ten years,” I repeated.

“Since I started my apprenticeship.”

“Every spare dollar I made went into that medical account,” I said.

My mother looked down at her shoes.

“We were going to pay you back, Clara,” she muttered.

“With what?” my father roared.

“With what money, Martha?”

“We don’t have anything left,” he said.