She walks to the stand in a navy dress that says mourning without widowhood, with eyes carefully red-rimmed and posture arranged around injury. She has been a third-grade teacher for twelve years. Parents love her. She knows how to make sincerity look handmade.
“Elena always had a way of making us feel small,” she says, voice trembling just enough. “She’d disappear for months and come back talking about contracts and important people, but whenever Mom needed help with the mortgage or the treatments or the care, it was always me. Elena would say she was between cycles. She always had some story. Then after Mom passed, I found the bank statements. Thousands of dollars withdrawn from Mom’s personal account. Signatures that didn’t look like Mom’s. It broke my heart to realize my own sister had been using our mother’s dementia to fund her important life in D.C.”
The word important lands on a curl of contempt.
I don’t move.