messages.”

Mom looked up too fast.

“What?”

He didn’t raise his voice.

“The family iPad still syncs with your Apple ID when it’s on home Wi-Fi,” he said.

“I saw enough of a notification last week to come prepared tonight.”

That was the third thing I understood all at once.

Why his banking app had already been open.

Why he’d chosen a public place.

Why his first question had sounded rehearsed.

He hadn’t walked into dinner fishing.

He’d walked in confirming.

Kennedy’s face tightened.

“That’s invasive.”

Dad ignored her.

He scrolled once and turned the screen a little farther.

Not enough for nearby tables to see, but enough for us.

Enough to make this stop being opinion.

At 9:42 p.m.

on one of the transfer dates, there was a message from Mom to Kennedy.

Sent Hunter’s 250.

Don’t post tonight.

Another one two weeks later.

Use the old card for Sephora.

Wait on the phone till Friday.

Then one from Kennedy.

You’re a lifesaver.

He never notices anything.

The he in that text could’ve meant Dad.

Could’ve meant me.

Honestly, either option made me sick.

Mom reached for her purse so quickly her water tipped and splashed across the tablecloth.

Dad caught the glass before it fell.

He set it upright without breaking eye contact.

“You told me every month that he was getting help,” Dad said.

“And all year you were telling her when to hide it.”

## He went for the iPad…

Mom clutched her purse to her side like there was still something in it she could save.

Her voice dropped into that warning tone she used when she wanted the room to shrink around her.

“Lower your voice,” she said.

Kennedy found hers again too.

“This is humiliating.”

I almost laughed at that, but nothing about me felt light.

The irony was sitting too close.

Humiliating.

That was rich.

I’d spent a year being lied about on paper while she posed in hotel mirrors.

Dad stood up.

Not abruptly.

Not theatrically.

He just rose from the booth, smoothed the front of his shirt once, and said, “Unlock your phone.

Or I’ll pull the rest from the iPad in the car.”

That was when Kennedy finally lost color.

The boldness left her first.

Then the posture.

She looked younger and meaner and somehow smaller all at once.

Mom said, “Don’t do this here.”

Dad’s reply came back flat.

“You already did it here.

You just assumed he wouldn’t know.”

He walked toward the front windows where the parking lot lights striped across the glass.

I watched his reflection go past the hostess stand, past the dessert case, out into the damp night.

Nobody at our table spoke.

A busser wiped down the booth behind me and kept glancing over with that careful look service workers get when they’re trying to judge whether someone’s about to throw a drink.

Kennedy stared at the tablecloth.

Mom stared at the door.

I stared at the wet ring her glass had left beside my plate.

## Her cruel line backfired…

Dad came back two minutes later with the iPad tucked under his arm like evidence.

He slid into the booth without taking off his jacket.

The screen lit up, and I saw the familiar message thread header before anyone said another