“You’ll withdraw that complaint,” he spat. “You’re ruining your sister.”
I turned on speakerphone and looked at Helena. She nodded: follow her, let her speak.
“Mom,” I said softly, “did you make any transfers from my account for the wedding?”
There was a brief pause. Then, his voice, confident as ever:
—Of course. If you live under my roof, your money belongs to the family.
Helena raised an eyebrow. I clenched the phone.
“Thanks,” I said. “I just needed to hear you say it.”
I hung up.
That afternoon, my mother’s phone rang again. But this time it wasn’t me.
It was the bank, the compliance office… and the police.
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