If they did not, then I was only a fool being robbed.

And sitting in that kitchen, looking at a zero where my future was supposed to be and a Rolex charged to my name, I finally had to admit which one I was.

The hope died.

And its death was quiet, because a hope that dies has stopped struggling.

What was left in its place was not grief and not fury but something clear and level and almost restful — the plain, unclouded sight of my family exactly as they were, at last, with nothing left in me that needed them to be anything better.

I had loved people who were using me.