My sister’s son hurled a dinner fork at me and declared, “Mom says you’re basically the help.” The table erupted in laughter. I was gone before dessert ever reached the plates.

“We can’t come up with $298,000,” he said. “We can maybe scrape together seventy-five if we liquidate everything—savings, retirement, the boat—”

“The boat,” I repeated. “The one you bought while ignoring your mortgage payment.”

Marcus shut his eyes for a moment like the words physically hit him.

“I’m trying to keep my family in their home,” he whispered.

“Your family lived in a rental before I bought them a home,” I said. “They’ll survive in a rental again.”

“The kids—” he began.

“The kids will learn something useful,” I said. “That you can’t treat people like trash and expect them to keep paying for your life.”

Marcus stared at me for a long time. Then he nodded once, defeated.

“I guess there’s nothing more to say,” he murmured.

He walked out.

Day eight, Jessica called again.

I stared at her name on the screen. My thumb hovered.

Then I answered.

“Nina,” she said, and her voice sounded scraped raw. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve been horrible to you.”

No preamble. No accusation. Just remorse, messy and real.

I sat on the edge of my bed, phone pressed to my ear.