“He understands fraud,” I said. “And he understands theft.”

She took two steps toward me, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp anger.

“Do you have any idea what it costs to keep this house?” she demanded, gesturing to the high ceilings. “Do you know what Brielle’s tuition costs?”

“Brielle is twenty-four years old and hasn’t held a job in her life,” I said.

“She is your sister,” my mother snapped.

“She is my stepsister,” I corrected. “And she is living off the money my father earned with his sweat and blood.”

My mother slammed her hand down on the edge of the counter.

“Your father is gone, Maren!” she yelled, her voice cracking in the empty kitchen.

The silence that followed was heavy and thick with years of unspoken resentment.

I looked at her, seeing the deep lines around her mouth that her makeup couldn’t hide.

“So that makes it okay to steal from his estate?” I asked quietly.

“It wasn’t stealing,” she said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “It was survival.”