My father’s face creased with concern. “The birthday money, Kayla. I send it every month. Like always.”

I forced a laugh, a brittle, nervous sound. “Dad, I think you’re mixed up. You haven’t sent anything. We would have… I would have thanked you.”

His expression darkened. The easy smile was gone, replaced by a cold, hard line. “Mixed up? Kayla, I have been sending five hundred dollars to you every single month for the last two years. For the kids. For birthdays, for clothes, for whatever you need.” He disappeared from the frame for a moment, then returned holding a thick manila folder. “Twenty-four wire transfers. October, November, December…” He held up printout after printout to the camera. “Five hundred dollars. Every month. To the account ending in 4782.”