The caterers began quietly packing up the trays of food in the outdoor kitchen, keeping their eyes down.

Father turned back to me, the mask of the polite host completely gone.

His eyes were cold, filled with a deep, quiet resentment.

“You have ruined this family,” he said.

“No,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “You ruined it ten years ago when you let the fire burn.”

Mother looked up, her face streaked with mascara.

“Maya, please,” she whispered. “We are still your parents.”

“You are my trustees,” I said. “And your term has expired.”

Father took a slow step toward me, his shadow falling over my face.

“You think you have won some grand victory today,” he said, his voice a low hiss. “But you have nothing.”

“I have the truth,” I said.

“The truth doesn’t pay for your medical bills, Maya,” he said. “The truth doesn’t buy you a place to live.”

He leaned in closer, the scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the smell of chlorine from the pool.

“This house is in my name,” he said. “Every account you have access to is controlled by me.”