Dad opened the folder slowly, the way he must have opened a thousand charts across forty years of surgery. “Delphine,” he said, “you just told this table that Bright Path Home Services has raised its rates. That’s interesting. Because Bright Path has no rates. It has no staff, no office, and no clients. It has one managing member.” He turned the first page toward her. “You.” Delphine’s wine glass paused in the air. Travis shifted, his leather portfolio suddenly forgotten on the table beside his untouched plate.

“For three years,” Dad continued, laying out page after page, “you billed your mother’s illness for care that one person provided, unpaid, every single week. Her.” He nodded toward me. “Sawyer’s log is dated, timed, and cross-referenced against every invoice you submitted. Eleven of your billed visits happened on days she was the only human being in that house.” He slid the corporate filing forward. “Seventy-four thousand three hundred dollars in invented services. One hundred fifty-five thousand moved to Travis’s clinic. Seventeen thousand more after that.” He looked up. “I have known since the third invoice. I simply wanted all of it before I said a word.”