I wrote for ten minutes and deleted it twice. The third version was short. “Mom, you told me my daughter was a break you needed. I took you at your word. I will not be sending money for property taxes, and I will not be asked to explain where I spend my holidays.” My thumb hovered over send, and then a new message from my father lit up the screen: “Please do not send that yet. There is something about the taxes you do not know.”

I sent it anyway, then stared at the phone until it rang. Dad’s voice was low and tired. “Hannah, your mother has been hiding things from all of us. Can you come Saturday? Come with the baby, and I will explain everything.” I looked at Poppy, kicking happily on her mat. Then the doorbell rang, and a courier handed me a thick envelope with Mom’s handwriting across the front.