“Phoebe.

This is a misunderstanding.

All of it.”

I set three folders down on the coffee table, side by side, squaring their edges the way I do.

“Which part is the misunderstanding?” I asked.

“Leaving me in labor to eat cake?

The eighty-six thousand dollars you moved to your mother’s company?

The loan you guaranteed with my forged signature and my condominium?