He squinted at the first photo of Megan jogging.

“Who is this?” he asked. “Is this an old photo from high school?”

“That was taken last Tuesday,” I said. “Look at the date stamp in the corner.”

He looked closer, his brow furrowing.

“And look at the next one,” I said, my voice flat.

He swiped to the photo of Megan carrying the heavy crate.

“She looks… she looks healthy,” he whispered.

“She is healthy, Dad,” I said. “She’s been faking it. For years.”

He shook his head, his face turning pale under the soot. “No. Your mother goes to her appointments. Your mother coordinates the treatments.”

“Mom only sees what Megan wants her to see,” I said. “And today, Mom stole twelve thousand dollars from my savings account to pay for a fake Swiss clinic.”

I picked up his tablet, opened the banking app, and showed him my empty balance and the transfer history.

“She used the login I gave her two years ago,” I said.

My father sat down on the edge of my faded sofa.

He stared at the tablet screen, then back at my phone.