“Just like Clara has worked.”

My mother let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

“Megan is not like Clara,” she said.

“She doesn’t have her strength.”

“She is sick, Arthur.”

“You saw the medical bills.”

“I saw photocopies,” my father said.

He finally looked up, his eyes fixing on my mother’s face.

“I saw papers that Lauren just proved were altered.”

“You knew about the Photoshop, didn’t you?”

My mother flinched.

She looked toward the hallway, as if looking for a way out.

“I didn’t… I didn’t know everything,” she whispered.

“I just knew she needed help.”

“She was desperate.”

“We were all desperate,” I said.

The words felt hot in my throat.

I walked over to the table and stood opposite my mother.

“I was desperate when I worked seventy hours a week to pay off this place.”

“I was desperate when I had to choose between buying groceries or paying the property tax.”

“But you didn’t care about that.”

“You just wanted to take what I earned and give it to her.”

My mother looked at me, her expression hardening.