My parents, of course, were already there when I arrived. My mother was sitting in a stiff leather chair, her arms crossed, wearing that perpetually disappointed expression that had been her default look whenever she dealt with me. My father was beside her, posture straight, hands folded on the table—a man of few words and even fewer affections.

Then there was Jessica, my sister. She looked completely at ease, as if she already knew exactly what was going to happen. And I should have known, right then.

The lawyer, a man in his sixties with thin-rimmed glasses, cleared his throat and began reading off details about assets, properties, stocks, and bank accounts. I listened, half-distracted, until I heard my sister’s name being repeated again and again. Everything—every single dollar, every asset, every investment—all of it, to her.