My mother had called it a family meal, the kind she used to make when she wanted everyone at the same table and no one allowed to leave before dessert.
There was pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, and lemon candles burning in the center of the table because Mom always thought scent could soften a room.
Lydia came in late carrying a folder and wearing the same frightened expression she had worn since we were kids whenever she wanted trouble to look like tragedy.
She had color-coded printouts.
She had highlighted balances.
She had a plan that sounded impossible and urgent and somehow still expected me to be grateful for the chance to fund it.
My father sat at the head of the table, tapping two fingers beside his plate.
That tapping was his warning signal.
It meant he had decided the outcome before the conversation began.
Mom kept looking between me and Lydia, already crying in small practiced breaths before anyone had even asked me a question.
