“She was so sad, Arthur,” she pleaded.

“I just wanted to see her smile again.”

My father let out a harsh, dry laugh.

It sounded like dry wood snapping under a boot.

“A vacation,” he said.

“A tropical vacation.”

He looked around my small kitchen.

He looked at the mismatched cabinets I had painted myself on my only day off.

He looked at the cheap linoleum floor that was peeling at the corners.

“And your other daughter is living here,” he said.

“Working twelve-hour shifts in crawlspaces.”

“Pulling copper wire until her fingers bleed.”

He shook his head slowly.

“I don’t even know who you are,” he said.

“I am her mother,” she said, her voice rising in anger.

“I protect my children.”

“You protected one,” he said.

“And you destroyed the other.”

He pointed at me again.

“And you destroyed me,” he added.

The phone on the table buzzed again, sliding an inch across the wood.

The screen lit up with another text message from Megan.

I could see the preview from where I stood.

*Are they gone yet?* it read.

My father saw it too.