At the bottom of the spreadsheet sat one number: $112,400. That was what I had paid for my father’s house and my mother’s comfort over four years, down to the last roll of paper towels. Then, while sorting the mail drawer, I found an envelope Dad had hidden under the takeout menus. It was a final notice from the bank, stamped three months earlier, and the amount owed made my stomach drop.

I said nothing. For four weeks, I took back my groceries, my espresso machine, my Costco card, and the internet password, and Dad never once asked why. On his sixty-fifth birthday morning, twenty-five relatives were due at noon for the feast he had promised. I stood in his empty kitchen holding a thick folder. When the doorbell rang, Dad whispered, “Megan, where is the food?” and I handed him the folder.