“She is your mother, not mine. If she still wants to keep buying designer clothes on Fifth Avenue, then you start paying for them.”

The humiliated word hung suspended in the air, laden with an irony that neither of them seemed able to recognize.

“I’m glad that you finally experienced a small part of that feeling,” I said, without raising my voice, because the truth, told calmly, always unsettled him more than anger.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and I could almost hear him searching for an answer that would restore the equilibrium he had grown accustomed to.

“Just fix it,” he said finally, as if the solution were obvious. “Call the bank and reactivate the card, because this is no way to treat family.”

I straightened up a little, pressing my hand against the edge of the countertop.