“I have to have a safety net because of my condition!”

“Your condition didn’t stop you from going to the Bahamas last April,” I said.

I swiped to the next photo.

It was Megan on a sandy beach, holding a tropical drink, her skin deeply tanned.

The date stamp at the bottom of the photo was April 12th.

That was the exact week my mother had called me crying, saying Megan needed emergency spinal injections.

I had worked eighty hours of overtime that month to send them three thousand dollars.

I pointed to the text message below the photo.

“Here is what you texted Lauren that same day,” I said.

“You told her, *My sister is so stupid, she actually believed the clinic story.*”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and poisonous.

My father flinched as if he had been struck.

“Did you write that, Megan?” he asked.

His hand trembled as he reached for his glasses, taking them off to wipe them on his flannel shirt.

“Lauren wrote that!” Megan screamed, her face turning a deep, angry red.