For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
My attorney’s words kept repeating in my head.
Your brother already knows.
Brent.
My brother.
The person who had laughed while my daughter cried.
The person who had watched our mother hand presents to every grandchild except Emma and Noah.
The person who had told me I was overreacting.
He knew something.
Something about my mother.
Something about our family.
And apparently, it had been hidden from me for years.
“What did Brent know?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet,” my attorney said. “But there’s something else you should see.”
He sent me a file.
I opened it.
The first page was a bank statement.
Then another.
Then another.
I stared at the numbers.
Money had been moving out of my parents’ accounts for years.
Small amounts at first.
Then larger ones.
Thousands of dollars at a time.
And almost every payment had the same destination.
