Lauren advised me to play along for a few more days, instructing me to accept the meager allowance without complaint while forensic accountants combed through the company’s ledger.

When I drove back to our suburban home in Ada that afternoon, I spotted Brenda’s luxury sedan parked crookedly in the driveway beside a faded blue work truck.

Inside the kitchen, Brenda was sipping coffee from my grandmother’s porcelain mug while Brandon’s older brother, Wayne Faulkner, leaned nervously against the marble counter.

“We need to have a serious conversation about your disrespectful attitude toward my son, young lady,” Brenda snapped the second the front door clicked shut.

“You sit around this house doing nothing while Brandon works seventy hours a week to keep Faulkner Commercial Builders afloat during a brutal market downturn.”