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landing and watched Mia toast with imported champagne.
The refrigerator was empty. My wife’s hands were trembling. And upstairs, my daughter was livestreaming her new designer bag, bought with the money meant for food. “Dad won’t do anything,” Mia whispered to her boyfriend.
“To freedom,” she said, raising a glass. “Dad won’t do anything. He’s too obsessed with looking respectable.”
Brent kissed her temple. “And your mom?”
Mia shrugged. “She’ll be in assisted living by Christmas. Then we sell the house.”
Everyone laughed.
I recorded every word.
Then I walked downstairs.
