“While you were hoarding seventy thousand dollars in private investment accounts, Gwen sold her hair to pay for a cancer biopsy,” I said. “Are you going to tell me her hair was a gift to you, too?”

My mother stared at the floor a moment, then her face hardened again.

“She was always a weak woman,” she spat. “And you’re my son. Your mother comes first.”

“Being my mother never gave you the right to let my wife die,” I said.

Paige let out a shrill, nervous laugh. “You don’t even know she’s really sick! She probably made it all up to steal everything for herself!”

My lawyer opened the medical folder: diagnostic scans, ultrasound images, pathology reports, records of severe weight loss, urgent surgical recommendations.