“David,” she whispered.
Dad did not look at her.
Max rubbed his forehead. “This is getting blown out of proportion.”
I turned to him.
For years, I had watched Max survive discomfort by making everyone else uncomfortable first. A joke. A sigh. A complaint about being judged. He was good at pulling the room toward his needs.
Not this time.
“Maybe you should read the first line,” I said.
He looked at me, then at the page.
Dana slid another document forward.
It was one of the bank authorizations.
“Please also look at the date.”
Dad’s hand tightened around the edge of the table.
Mom read the date aloud.
“March fifteenth.”
Dana looked at me. “Almeida, where were you on March fifteenth?”
I pulled a printed email from my folder and placed it on the table. Conference confirmation. Hotel receipt. A photo of me standing beside a research poster in Madison, wearing a navy blazer and the nervous smile of someone trying to look older than twenty-two.
“I was presenting at a conference,” I said. “I did not sign anything at the bank that day.”
Mom stopped reading.
Max’s foot stopped bouncing.
Dad’s face seemed to collapse inward.
“David,” Mom said again, smaller this time.
Dad rubbed both hands over his eyes.
“I was trying to keep everything from falling apart.”
Dana did not raise her voice. “By using documents that did not come from Almeida.”
Dad looked at me then.
There were tears in his eyes, but I noticed something I hated myself for noticing: he still looked more afraid of consequences than sorry for what he had done.
“Your brother was in a bad place,” he said.
“I was in a place too,” I replied. “I was on my way to medical school.”
Mom began to cry quietly. “We were scared.”
I nodded once.
“I know.”
Her face lifted, hopeful.
Then I said, “You were scared for Max. Not for me.”
No one answered.
The conference room had one window overlooking the street. A delivery truck idled at the curb. People walked past carrying coffee, heading to jobs, living ordinary lives. Inside, my family sat around a polished table with my grandmother’s trust between us like a witness.
Dana turned another page.
“The trust terms require restoration of the funds,” she said. “There are also penalties attached to misuse.”
“How much are we talking about?” Max asked.
Dad shot him a look.
Dana gave a number.
Mom’s hand flew to her mouth.
Max leaned back. “That’s not realistic.”
I looked at him.
“It was realistic when it was my money.”
He had no answer.