I told Danny you had your own expenses, he said.

Did you tell him I stopped.

He tapped the ladder twice.

Why does that matter.

Because he should know what is actually happening, I said.

He did not answer that, and I did not need him to, because the not-answering was the same confession my mother’s not-remembering had been.

My father had told my brother that I had stopped helping, while accepting from me, every Friday, the money that proved I had not.

He had let Danny pay for hotels and dinners that my five hundred and fifty dollars was ostensibly covering, and he had done it with a straight face and a careful hand, the same hand that squared a ladder against a rail, and when I finally made myself ask the only question that mattered, what happens if I stop, he looked at me for a long moment and said, I suppose that would be your decision.