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.

Spa appointments.

Electronics.

Every time Elena protested, Mia called her forgetful.

Every time Elena tried contacting me overseas, Mia whispered poison into her ear.

“She’s unstable lately.”

“She’s confused.”

“She’s overreacting.”

The worst part came quietly.

“She told me you’d be ashamed of me,” Elena whispered one night.

I kissed her forehead gently.