My appendix ruptured at 2 a.m., and I called my parents seventeen times before the world began to blur. My mother finally texted back: “Your sister’s baby shower is tomorrow. We can’t leave now.”

She was holding Noah against her shoulder now. His face was red from sleep, his tiny mouth open.

Claire looked exhausted. Not pretty-exhausted. Not baby-shower-exhausted. Truly exhausted.

“I didn’t know about the tape,” she said.

“I know.”

Her eyes filled.

“Mom said you were trying to destroy us.”

“I was trying to tell the truth.”

Claire looked down at her son.

Then, in a voice so small it almost disappeared, she said, “What if I don’t know how to tell the difference?”

I did not know what to do with that.

Claire had never given me honesty before without wrapping it in blame.

Behind her, my mother snapped, “Claire.”

Claire flinched.

Noah startled and began to cry.

And there it was.

The inheritance.

Not money. Not property.

Fear.

Claire looked at our mother, then back at me.

For one second, I thought she might come toward me.

Instead, she turned and hurried down the hallway with the crying baby.

My mother followed.

Richard did not.

He stayed behind me.

For once, he stayed.

---

Claire called three nights later.

I almost didn’t answer.

Then I thought of Noah’s tiny fist.

“Hello?”

For a moment, all I heard was crying.

Not Claire’s.

The baby.

Then Claire whispered, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

I sat up in bed.