“Sir,” Daniela said slowly, sliding the scanned document to the center of her desk, “this is a forged power of attorney, and you’ve just walked into a bank and identified yourself as the person who filed it.” The silence that followed had weight. My father’s smile flickered, the way a candle does right before it goes out. He recovered fast, spreading his hands in that reasonable, wounded tone he used on everyone. “There’s clearly been a misunderstanding. I’m managing my daughter’s finances for her own protection. She’s been unwell, emotional, making poor decisions.”

I almost admired how smoothly the lie came out, because I had heard it my whole life. But Daniela wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was looking at the notary stamp, then at her screen, then back at the stamp. “This notary,” she said carefully, “retired in this state two years before the date printed here.” My father’s mouth opened, then closed. Behind him, my mother’s face went pale beneath her linen, and Bianca finally lowered her sunglasses. That was the moment I stopped being the frightened daughter standing in her socks that morning, and started being exactly what my job had trained me to be.