My father stared at the papers.

His face was a mask of pure exhaustion.

The lines around his eyes looked deeper than they had this morning.

He looked like an old man.

“We lived a lie,” he said.

“Every single day.”

“I woke up at four in the morning for ten years,” he said.

“I drove that rusted van through snowstorms.”

“I skipped lunch to save five dollars a day.”

He looked at my mother with a coldness that made me shiver.

“And you knew,” he whispered.

“You sat across from me at the kitchen table every night.”

“You watched me rub my knees.”

“You watched me check the bank balance.”

“And you never said a word.”

“I was afraid,” she cried.

“You should have been,” he said.

“You should have been terrified of what you were doing to us.”

My mother wrung her hands.

“Megan is your daughter too,” she said.

“She is a thief,” my father said.

“And you are her accomplice.”

The word hung in the air.

It was heavy and dark.

My mother gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.