“She can’t do that,” Marina said over speakerphone, her voice tinny and sharp. Eleanor could picture her perfectly: jaw set, arms crossed, standing in the kitchen of her perfect suburban home while her perfect husband made gluten-free pasta. “That house is half mine.”

“Grandma’s bracelet. The one you accused me of stealing the night she died. I found it two weeks later, inside your winter coat. You’d hidden it yourself and forgot.”

“The bracelet,” Eleanor said, because eleven years of silence demanded no small talk. “I didn’t take it.”

Marina’s face flickered. “What?”

Not a repair. A rebuilding.

“Family is exhausting.”