It was Colin, my twenty-eight-year-old brother. The last time I saw him, he was begging me for a loan to cover a gambling debt. Now, he stood there in a stained t-shirt, blinking in the sunlight, looking like a man who had just rolled out of a hangover. For a split second—a micro-expression that would haunt me later—he looked terrified.

Then, the mask slipped into place.

“Brother Paul!” His voice cracked, pitching too high. “Oh my god, you’re back! Why didn’t you tell us?”

He lunged forward, wrapping me in a hug that felt desperate rather than affectionate. He slapped my back, his laughter loud and brittle. “Carla! Babe! Paul is home!”

I stiffened, gently pushing him away. “I wanted it to be a surprise. Where is Mom?”

“Come in, come in!” He ushered me inside, ignoring the question.

The interior was a shock to the system. The cozy, cluttered living room was gone. The worn velvet sofa where Mom used to read to us was replaced by cold, white leather couches. A massive flat-screen TV dominated the wall. The shelves were lined with tacky, modern art sculptures. It looked like a bachelor pad, devoid of warmth.