On Saturday morning, a man and his son pulled up in a pickup truck.

I got to the front door before Brittany did.

“I'm really sorry,” I told them, “but that piano isn't hers to sell. It belongs to my mom. She's working overseas. She doesn't know about this.”

The man looked at me. Then at Brittany, hurrying down the stairs in her robe.

“Is that true, ma'am?”

“It's my house!” Brittany snapped. “Everything in it is mine!”

The man looked at me again. I must have looked like I was going to cry.

“I think I'll pass,” he said quietly, and he and his son got back in their truck.

Brittany turned on me the moment the door closed.

“You just cost me eight hundred dollars. Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Your phone. You're grounded. Two weeks.”

Dad came out of the kitchen, holding his coffee.

“Dad, she was selling Grandma's piano—”

“Maddie, give Brittany your phone,” he said, tired. “She's in charge when I'm at work. You need to respect her.”

That night, in the box room, I dug Ethan's old tablet out of a drawer. It still connected to the Wi-Fi.

I opened the video app and typed a message to Mom.

Mom. I need to tell you something. Please call when you can. Don't tell Dad.