I knew her face.
Barely.
She had attended my mother’s funeral.
She had been at two meetings when I was younger.
My father had once called her my mother’s estate attorney.
I had not seen her in years.
My father closed the door.
He looked first at me.
Then at my backpack on the floor.
Then at my stepmother’s shoe beside it.
Then at the shopping bags.
His expression changed.
My stepmother forced a smile.
“You’re home early.”
My father didn’t answer.
She glanced at the attorney.
“What is she doing here?”
The attorney said:
“We need to discuss the trust.”
My stepmother’s face tightened.
My father walked farther into the foyer.
He looked at my stepsister’s jacket.
My stepbrother’s shoes.
The unopened boxes.
Then at me.
“What did she say to you?”
I swallowed.
My stepmother answered.
“Nothing.”
My father kept looking at me.
“What did she say?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
His jaw tightened.
“It matters to me.”
My stepmother laughed nervously.
“This is ridiculous.”
My stepsister spoke.
“She asked why she would waste money on someone else’s child.”
My father turned slowly.
My stepmother stared at her daughter.
“You stay out of this.”
My stepsister’s chin trembled.
“No.”
My father looked at his wife.
“Did you say that?”
She folded her arms.
“I said something in frustration.”
“Did you say it?”
“She was acting entitled.”
“Did you say it?”
My stepmother looked at me.
Then back at him.
“Yes.”
My father closed his eyes for one second.
When he opened them, the attorney was already watching him.
Not my stepmother.
Him.
That was the first clue this was not only about her.
My father looked at the shopping bags again.
“What did you buy?”
My stepmother gave a disbelieving laugh.
“What?”
“For the kids.”
She straightened.
“My kids?”
His expression hardened.
“All of them.”
Silence.
She gestured.
“You can see.”
“How much?”
“Why?”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
My stepsister whispered:
“Mom.”
My stepmother snapped:
“Enough.”
The estate attorney opened her leather folder.
“You spent twelve thousand eight hundred forty-six dollars and seventeen cents in the last nine days.”
Nobody moved.
My stepmother stared at her.
“That is private.”
“No.”
The attorney’s voice remained calm.
“It stopped being private when reimbursement requests were submitted to the child-support trust.”
I felt the words without understanding them.
My father looked at me.
The attorney did too.
Then she said:
“The purchases in this foyer were paid from your mother’s trust.”