At my father’s funeral, my brother stood up and announced, “We’re selling the house right away to cover my $340,000 gambling debt.” Then my mother turned to me and calmly added, “You’ll need to find somewhere else to live.”

When I opened the door to my old bedroom, the pale yellow walls were still there, but my furniture had been hauled away. In its place sat stacks of high-end electronics and shoe boxes stacked to the ceiling.

My room had been converted into a storage unit for Wesley’s impulse buys before my father had even been buried in the ground. I didn’t scream or cry, but instead, I did what I always do when chaos threatens to swallow me: I organized.

I handled every single funeral arrangement because someone had to deal with the reality of death. I called the cemetery, wrote the obituary, and approved the prayer cards while Wesley handled the public appearances.

He wore his grief like a custom-tailored suit, stepping into the light whenever neighbors arrived with food. Behind closed doors, however, the truth was beginning to leak out of the cracks in his composure.

On the fourth night, I passed the kitchen and heard Wesley speaking into his phone with a voice that was tight with pure panic. “I know the deadline is coming,” he hissed. “Just give me until the end of the week because the house is as good as sold.”