When she finally realized it was me, she didn’t run to me or even smile. She pressed herself against the wall and covered her head with both hands.

I crossed to her slowly and eased the hat off.

There was no hair left. None. Her bare scalp was dotted with tiny red marks, as though someone had dragged a dull razor across it.

My mother came out of the house in an expensive silk blouse, thick gold bracelets, a heavy gold chain at her throat.

My sister Tara followed, a new smartphone in one hand and a designer purse on her arm, so many rings on her fingers she could barely bend them.

“Don’t make a scene, Caleb,” my mother said, cold. “Della used some cheap hair product and it all fell out, and then she got obsessed with losing weight.”

“She’s crazy,” Tara added, smirking. “She lives off your money and still wants everyone’s attention.”

Then I saw a strip of medical tape peeking from under Della’s sleeve, and a yellowing bruise where an IV needle had gone in.

I wanted to shout, to demand answers on the spot. But then I remembered: the house, the bank accounts, nearly everything, were legally registered under their names.

If I confronted them now, with no proof, they could move the money in a day and pin all of it on Della.

So I did something harder. I told them a calculated lie.

“Actually,” I said, “I came back because my company’s giving me a severance and stock package worth about five hundred thousand dollars. I just have to prove I already hold substantial property and investments in my own name here.”