It showed that the moment his four thousand dollars landed in Carmen’s primary account each month, an automated transfer swept the money straight into a private company registered under Veronica’s name.

The parents never saw a cent of it.

“Where are your debit cards, Mom?” Alvin asked.

Carmen lowered her gaze, her hands trembling in her lap.

“Veronica keeps them in her safe,” she said.

“She said it was better, so we wouldn’t lose them.” And Alvin sat across from his mother in that diner and understood the shape of the machine that had been built around his parents: their income captured, their cards confiscated, their bedroom taken, their meals rationed, their autonomy dismantled piece by careful piece, all of it dressed up as help, as care, as a devoted family managing the affairs of the elderly.

And then his phone rang.