I stared.
“The writing program.”
He shook his head.
“I thought you asked to stay.”
“No.”
My stepmother whispered:
“Enough.”
I looked at her.
“No.”
My whole body was shaking.
But the word felt good.
“No.”
“You do not get to say enough.”
My stepbrother started crying silently.
That pulled me back.
He was ten.
This was not his courtroom.
I stopped.
The estate attorney noticed too.
She closed her folder.
“We should continue this discussion without the children present.”
My stepmother looked at her son.
For the first time since the confrontation began, genuine maternal panic crossed her face.
“Come upstairs.”
He stood.
Then looked at me.
“Can I take my old shoes?”
I nodded because I didn’t know what else to do.
He ran toward the mudroom.
My stepsister did not follow.
Her mother stared.
“Come.”
She shook her head.
“I want to stay.”
“You are fifteen.”
“Exactly.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand you used her money for my school.”
My stepmother’s voice broke.
“I did it for you.”
My stepsister wiped her face.
“I didn’t ask you to steal.”
The word steal changed the room.
My stepmother slapped her palm against the nearest shopping bag.
“Stop using that word.”
The bag tipped.
A box slid onto the floor.
My father stood.
“Don’t.”
She looked at him.
He said:
“Do not intimidate her because she said something you don’t like.”
His wife laughed.
“Now you’re a father?”
I saw the hit land.
My father didn’t defend himself.
“Not well enough.”
That was the first good thing he said all afternoon.
My stepmother stared.
Then looked toward me.
“You’re enjoying this.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.”
I surprised myself with how true it was.
I wasn’t enjoying anything.
I wanted to go back to twenty minutes earlier and never ask about a gift.
I wanted my mother.
I wanted my father to have noticed before a lawyer had to explain my childhood in transaction records.
I wanted my stepsister not to be ashamed of a jacket.
I wanted my stepbrother to put his shoes on.
I wanted my stepmother to take back the sentence.
Someone else’s child.
More than the money.
More than the house.
More than the fraud.
That was the thing lodged inside me.
I asked:
“Did you ever love me?”
Nobody moved.
My stepmother’s face changed.
The attorney looked away.
My father’s eyes filled.
I didn’t care.
I was asking her.
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
I already had the answer.
Then she said:
“I tried.”