For the first time since you left the house, Carmen laughs.

It is not joy. It is the sound a person makes when grief and disbelief collide so hard the body forgets how else to respond.

“Three hundred million,” she says. “And tonight our children destroyed us over a house worth maybe seven hundred thousand.”

Mercer wisely says nothing.

You stare through the rain-streaked window as the city slides by. Closed taquerias. Drugstores. Quiet storefronts. Ordinary life continuing, indifferent to absurdity. Somewhere behind you, your children are likely pouring drinks in the home you built, congratulating themselves for finally taking control.

Suddenly you remember Daniel at eleven, burning with fever while you carried him to the bathroom after he got sick in the hall. Natalie at fourteen refusing school unless Carmen stayed because another girl was tormenting her. Brian at sixteen sobbing after wrecking your truck, and how you took the blame with insurance so he wouldn’t lose his scholarship chance. Emily as a child after asthma attacks, asleep on your chest, fingers clutching your shirt like you were the one permanent thing in her world.

A parent’s memory is dangerous.

It keeps love alive long after respect has been k*lled.