The text came at 2 a.m. like it was good news—my mother casually told me she’d sold my house while I was away, using an old legal document, and spent the money on my sister’s wedding. When I told her to stop the deal, she laughed—called me selfish, dramatic, ungrateful—and said I could “explain myself” at the family reunion.

My parents’ trial began six months later in a different courtroom, with less press and more embarrassment. By then most of the family had sorted itself into camps. There were those who believed my parents had made a terrible but understandable mistake. There were those who privately thought I should make it go away because surely I of all people had the influence. There were those who knew better but could not admit it without indicting their own long tolerance of my mother’s entitlement. And there were a few, including one uncle and two cousins, who wrote me brief notes saying only some version of you did the right thing. Those notes mattered more than they should have. Betrayal rearranges the value of small loyalties.

I testified on the second day. Patricia had prepared me only enough to keep me from preparing myself into stiffness. “Just tell the truth,” she said. “The facts are already obscene.”