The flash of the screen illuminated the darkened living room, casting a sharp blue light over Clara’s old furniture that we’d inherited when she moved to her third apartment in two years.

Monday morning didn't feel like a victory. It felt like paperwork.

Ryan and I sat in a small, windowless conference room in the county municipal building across from Assistant District Attorney Sarah Vance—no relation to Ryan, but a sharp, no-nonsense prosecutor with a row of silver pens in her breast pocket and eyes that missed nothing.

She laid our digital tablet flat on the table, scrolling through the text screenshots, the bank transfer records from Moreno & Associates, and the certified copy of the power of attorney document with Janet’s forged signature.

“Well,” ADA Vance said, adjusting her glasses. “This is about as clean an elder financial abuse and forgery case as I’ve seen in three years of public service. The bank records show clear intent, the text messages contain an explicit admission of guilt, and the power of attorney misuse is well-documented.”

“Can we press full charges?” I asked, leaning forward.

“We can,” ADA Vance said, leaning back in her chair. “However, I want you to understand what comes next. Once we file these charges, a warrant will be issued for Janet Higgins's arrest. She’s seventy-one years old. She’s going to spend a night in county holding, she’s going to be arraigned in front of a judge in an orange jumpsuit, and she’s facing up to five years in prison with a mandatory restitution order.”

I sat back. The room felt very cold.

For thirty-two years, Janet had been the center of my universe—a terrifying, unpredictable, all-powerful force that dictated whether I was a good person, a worthy daughter, or a failure. The thought of her in an orange jumpsuit... it felt surreal. Almost impossible.

Ryan reached across the table, his hand covering mine. His grip was warm and solid.

“She made her choice, Clara,” Ryan said softly. “Every time she stole from you, every time she weaponized your sister against you, every time she walked into your house like she owned your life. She chose this.”

I looked down at my wedding ring, then at the tablet screen displaying Ava’s little face as my screensaver. I thought about my daughter growing up watching me bend the knee to emotional blackmail, handing over our hard-earned savings to fund someone else’s laziness.

If I let Janet off the hook now, the cycle would never end. It would just pass down to Clara’s kids, and then to Clara’s grandkids, trapping every generation in the same toxic web of guilt and debt.

“File the charges,” I said, my voice unwavering.