Then he married Denise.

At first, Denise was charming.

She brought homemade brownies when she visited. She bought Eli a baseball glove and helped me curl my hair before the eighth-grade dance. She told everyone she did not want to replace our mother.

“I just want to add more love to this family,” she used to say.

That version of Denise disappeared six months after the wedding.

The brownies stopped.

The compliments stopped.

The smiles only appeared when other people were watching.

Still, Dad made excuses for her.

“She’s adjusting.”

“She’s under pressure.”

“She didn’t mean it that way.”

Then, ten months before my senior prom, Dad collapsed at work.

A heart attack.

He was forty-eight.

By the time the ambulance reached the hospital, he was gone.

Eli and I lost our second parent before either of us had learned how to drive on the highway without panicking.

After Dad’s funeral, Denise changed so quickly that it almost felt rehearsed.

Within a week, she had replaced the lock on Dad’s home office.

Within two weeks, she had redirected the mail.

Within a month, she controlled every bank statement, insurance document, password, and legal file in the house.

Whenever Eli or I asked questions, she reminded us that she was our legal guardian.

“You are children,” she would say. “You don’t get to interrogate the adult paying the bills.”

But Denise was not paying the bills with her money.

She was using ours.