The refrigerator was empty. My wife’s hands were trembling. And upstairs, my daughter was livestreaming her new designer bag, bought with the money meant for food. “Dad won’t do anything,” Mia whispered to her boyfriend.

Brent laughed softly. “Old people love guilt trips.”

I took one slow step toward him.

He stopped laughing.

Mia lifted her chin defiantly. “Don’t start, Dad. You’re never here. You have no idea what it’s like managing this house.”

I looked around at the empty kitchen. My shaking wife. The watch hanging from Brent’s wrist.

Then I smiled.

Not because I was calm.

Because neither of them understood who paid for every wall around them, every account they touched, every lie they’d been telling.

“You’re right,” I said quietly. “I need to understand everything.”

Mia smirked.