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 kissed her temple. “And your mom?”

Mia shrugged. “She’ll be in assisted living before Christmas. Then we sell the house.”

The room exploded with laughter.

I recorded every second.

Then I walked downstairs.

Silence dropped instantly.

Mia forced a smile. “Dad. Want a drink?”

“No,” I said calmly. “But I would like to make a toast.”

Brent smirked. “This should be good.”

I lifted my glass of water.

“To targeting the wrong man.”

Mia’s expression flickered.

Then the doorbell rang.