“Now wait just a minute—” my mother starts.
“Shut up, Devika.” The words come out hard and sharp, and for once in her life, she does what she’s told. “You don’t get to defend yourself. You don’t get to make excuses. You sold your own daughter and you knew — you knew — that she would suffer, and you did it anyway because you cared more about money than you ever cared about me.”
I turn to my father, who looks like he’s about to be sick.
“And you. You were supposed to protect me. You were my father. I used to think you hung the moon, did you know that? I used to wait by the window for you to come home, hoping that today would be different, hoping that today you’d be sober enough to remember my name.” My voice cracks, but I push through. “But you chose the bottle over me. Every single time,
