Three t-shirts.

One pair of worn-out sneakers.

A hoodie.

Her notebooks.

And a few framed photographs of her mother.

That was the entirety of my daughter’s worldly possessions, after five years during which I had sent thousands of dollars every single month for her care.

I stood in that small, bare room and looked at the sum total of what all my money had bought my child, and I understood the theft in a way no bank statement had made me understand it.

As we walked out the front door, Evelyn called after us from the porch, her voice sharp with spite.