She had taken money from the business I built with my own hands, and she had taken it while carrying on with Victor, one of my primary wood suppliers, laughing at me behind my back.

My sister, Maya, had wept on my sofa and shown me the proof — the invoices, the photographs — because she loved me and could not bear to watch me be deceived.

And I, wounded and betrayed but ultimately strong, had done the hard and necessary thing.

I had cut the traitor out of my life.

I had thrown her into the storm where she belonged.

It was a good story, if you were me.