The room was completely quiet except for the hum of my old refrigerator.

“She took your money,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“She took everything I had left, Dad,” I said. “To give to a sister who is currently jogging in Chicago.”

My father put his head in his hands.

His shoulders began to shake, but he didn’t make a sound.

I stood there, watching the man who had worked forty years in a warehouse break down in my living room.

When he finally looked up, his eyes were red and hard.

“We are going to the bank,” he said, standing up.

“It’s six o’clock, Dad. The branch is closed.”

“Then I’m calling the fraud department,” he said, pulling out his own phone.

For the next two hours, my father sat at my kitchen table, speaking to bank representatives in a sharp, cold tone I had never heard him use before.

He authorized a freeze on his and my mother’s joint accounts.

He reported the twelve-thousand-dollar transfer from my account as unauthorized access, though because she had my password, they said it would take weeks to investigate.