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.

Again.

Again.

Again.

I walked calmly to the front door and opened it.

Our attorney entered first.

Then two police officers.

Then Elena’s doctor.

Then our accountant.

Then Mrs. Alvarez, our former housekeeper, wiping tears from her eyes.

Mia went pale instantly.

“What is this?”

“Consequences,” I answered.