I opened the briefcase and handed the first document to the bailiff, who passed it to the judge. It was a single spreadsheet, fourteen years of it, every deposit my parents had ever made to Priscilla and every request for help they had denied me, cross-referenced against certified bank records. “Your Honor,” Jocelyn said, “the plaintiffs claim their financial support entitles them to my client’s property. We’d simply like the court to see what that support actually looked like.” The judge studied the page, and I watched her eyebrows rise.

My parents’ attorney shifted in his chair. He had built his entire case on the word “support,” and the spreadsheet showed, in cold numbers, that every dollar of it had gone to Priscilla, not to me. Then I handed over the second document, and that was the one that made his face go pale. It was a letter, in my mother’s own handwriting, that I had kept for eleven years. Jocelyn read the key line aloud to the courtroom. “‘Adeline, you’ve always been the strong one. You don’t need our help the way your sister does. Please stop asking.'” The room went silent. My mother’s fake tears stopped mid-dab. Because the letter didn’t just undercut their lawsuit. It proved, in her own hand, that they had deliberately given me nothing, and had told me so in writing.