Part 1
My own parents stood in a Chicago federal courtroom and told a judge I was too mentally broken to own my life.
Their lawyer asked for my condo, my SUV, and every dollar in my bank accounts to be transferred to my younger sister before lunch.
My sister smiled at me from behind her pregnant belly like fir she had already picked the color of the nursery in my guest room.
I sat at the defense table in a charcoal-gray suit, hands folded, mouth shut.
Not because I was scared.
Because I was waiting.
Across the aisle, my mother, Patricia Vale, dabbed at her dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. My father, Richard, kept one arm around her shoulders, playing the wounded patriarch with the same fake dignity he wore to church fundraisers and country club dinners.
Beside them sat my sister, Brittany, thirty years old, glowing in a pale blue maternity dress she probably could not afford.
