I peeled back the flap slowly, letting Dad watch every second of it. Inside was not another copy of the loan agreement, and not a check. It was a formal legal filing, stamped and dated, prepared by an attorney I had hired the day after Christmas. Dad’s hand hovered in the cold air, unsure whether to grab it or step back. The tow operators had gone still. Even the neighbors on their porches had stopped pretending not to watch.

“You wanted power of attorney,” I said, keeping my voice level. “You told people I was unstable so you could take control of my money. So I did some paperwork of my own.” I slid the top page out far enough for him to read the heading. His face drained of color as the words registered. Mom stepped down off the porch, her slippers sinking into the snow. “Julian, what is that,” she said, but it wasn’t really a question. I looked between the two of them, the parents I had funded for a decade, and said the sentence I had driven three hours to deliver.