It was the opposite of rage.

It was the sound of a hope finally dying — a hope I had not even known I was still carrying.

For six years, underneath every check I wrote, there had lived a small and stubborn belief that if I gave enough, sacrificed enough, made myself useful enough, my family would one day see it, and turn to me, and love me the way they loved Tate.

That was the real reason I never checked the account.

Checking would have meant admitting I did not trust them, and not trusting them would have meant giving up the hope that they were worth trusting, and I could not give up that hope, because the hope was the only thing that made all my sacrifice mean something.

If they loved me back, then I was a devoted daughter.