My father stayed quiet most days, his pride damaged beyond repair.

“Sarah,” Diane’s voice was syrupy, dripping with false concern. “We’re so worried. Is he with you? You know he’s not well. He gets confused. We need to put him in a facility where he can be… managed.”

“He’s fine, Mother,” I said, staring at my father, who was currently solving the Sunday crossword puzzle with a sharp, focused gaze. “He’s just resting.”

“You’re making a mistake,” her voice dropped an octave. “You don’t know what he’s like now. He’s dangerous.”

“The only dangerous thing in this family,” I replied, “is a credit card in Paige’s hand.”

I hung up. But I knew the clock was ticking. They would try to file for guardianship. They would try to declare him incompetent. I needed ammunition, and I needed it fast.

I needed a confession. Diane was too guarded, and Paige was too stupid to know the details. That left Julia.

Julia, the middle child. The one who craved validation. The one who handled the paperwork.

I invited her to lunch at Trattoria Rossi, a place too expensive for me but perfect for her ego. I played the part of the overwhelmed daughter. I told her Dad was difficult, that I was struggling, that maybe they were right all along.

She drank three mimosas. Her guard lowered with every glass.

“It’s just so hard,” I sighed, stirring my coffee. “I mean, how did you guys even manage his finances? It seems like a nightmare.”

Julia laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “Oh, it was easy once we got him to sign the Power of Attorney. I mean, I did forge one of the supplementary forms for the bank transfer. But come on, he didn’t know what he was doing. That man hasn’t made a smart decision since 2015. Let Mom deal with the guilt. I just wanted the car payments covered.”

My phone, face down on the table, was recording every word.

“So, the house?” I pressed gently.

“Mom’s already looking at condos in Florida,” Julia smirked. “Once we sell the big house, we split the equity. Dad doesn’t need it. He’s got… what? Social Security?”

I smiled back. It was the hardest smile of my life. “You’ve really thought of everything.”

“We had to,” she said, checking her reflection in her spoon.

Click.

I sent the audio file to the lawyer, Mr. Henderson, a man who wore suits that cost more than my car and had a smile like a shark sensing blood.

“Is this enough?” I asked him.