They were on the property, Lydia.

I let the words settle between us. Dean’s face reddened, though whether from the cold or embarrassment I could not tell.

And you froze the account, he said. You can’t take away my share. I put money into that fund. If you don’t transfer it back, I’ll take you to court.

How much do you think you put in?

Eighteen hundred dollars.

The statements show six hundred. They also show more than three thousand in personal charges.

I paid for the party myself.

I looked at him for a long second. You paid for the party yourself?

Yes. Every bit of it.

All right, I said. Happy New Year, Dean.

I closed the door gently. He yelled that I would hear from a judge, and then his footsteps went down the stairs. A moment later his car pulled away. From the landing, Lily asked who had been at the door. Owen answered before I could.

Uncle Dean. He’ll be quiet soon.

Two weeks later, a deputy served me with Dean’s small-claims petition for $1,800. Tessa read it and muttered that his idea of “rightful” seemed flexible.

A lawyer recommended by Peter told me to bring certified records and leave my anger at home. An authorized signer could use a card, she said, but did not own the account. I requested the bank records and filed a counterclaim for the personal charges minus Dean’s actual $600 in deposits: $3,020. The bank certified that I was the sole owner and Dean only a signer.

The Question at the Birthday Dinner

Weeks before the hearing, Lily came into the kitchen in her fleece pajamas, carrying the uncertainty she had been hiding under books and coloring pages.

Mom, am I still allowed to go to family things?

I set down the dish towel. Of course you are. What made you wonder?

Uncle Dean said it was his guest list, and we weren’t on it. So how do I know if I’m invited? Is there going to be a list for Dad’s birthday? What about the family picnic in May? I’d rather know before I get dressed.

I knelt so we were eye to eye. You and Owen are wanted wherever your family is gathering. If grown-ups make a plan that’s only for grown-ups, we’ll explain it clearly, and you won’t have to guess. You’re not responsible for what Dean did.

She nodded, but I could see that reassurance would need to be repeated before she fully trusted it.

At Peter’s fortieth birthday, about forty relatives gathered in a rented room. Dean had been asked to run the slideshow, and no one changed the plan; the evening was supposed to be about Peter.

Just before the cake was served, Dean took the microphone.

I want to say how glad I am that we’re all here for Peter, he began, smiling toward the room. Lydia and I have had a little disagreement about the family account, but that hasn’t stopped me from giving them $350 of my own money toward their anniversary trip. Family is family.

People glanced at me, waiting to see whether I would correct him. Then his daughter, Paige, spoke from the front row.

Dad, which money was yours?

He frowned. What do you mean?

You said you used your own money. I thought you said the family account paid for the trip contribution.

The slideshow began with old family pictures, then moved to photos Dean had uploaded from his New Year’s party: the dining room, the fountain, the garland around the windows.

In the reflection of the glass, two small figures sat on the porch outside.

A timestamp in the corner showed 8:36 p.m. The next image, taken from a slightly different angle, carried a time of 9:11. Owen and Lily were still there.

Dean rushed to the laptop, but the slideshow had already moved on to another picture. Mr. Bell, who had joined us at Dad’s insistence, stood beside his chair.

That second photo was taken at nine-eleven, he said quietly. I saw the children out there when I looked across the street. I wrote down when I brought them in.

Dean unplugged the projector, and the room went dark for a second. When the lights came back, he was holding the loose cord and trying to smile.

Just a technical problem, he said.

Peter’s father looked at me. Were those your children?

Yes. They were outside for three hours.

He turned toward Dean, whose explanation that he had paid for every appetizer sounded suddenly small and hollow. I spent the rest of the evening in the hallway answering questions from relatives who had not known the children were there. Peter asked me not to apologize for his brother. I promised I would not.