“You have more than enough to fix this for me,” Ranata said.

I looked at my sister standing by the kitchen island.

I thought about the fifteen years of small smiles, the gift groceries, the endless questions about my crop yields.

I thought about Arthur driving my truck down the gravel road yesterday, believing he was collecting a rightful debt.

I thought about Helen sitting in a coffee shop, terrified of her shrinking bank account.

Ranata had built her entire comfortable life on the story of my failure.