My mother was frozen in her chair. She looked at me, her eyes wide with a mix of fury and shock. “Sarah! How could you do this to your own mother? Your own brother?”

“You d*ed to me the second you stole from my son,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. I felt completely numb.

I watched the officers lead Greg and Julie out of the house. The neighbors were already standing on their porches, watching. Julie was crying uncontrollably, her high heels tripping on the concrete path. Greg just kept his head down, the silver anchor keychain clinking against his belt as he was pushed into the back of a police cruiser.

My mother was issued a summons. Due to her age and health, they didn’t cuff her on the spot, but her trial is set for next month. She faces significant prison time.

It’s been six months now.

We sold our house in Toledo. There were too many bad memories on those streets. We moved to a small, quiet town near Columbus.

With the help of a court-appointed victim advocate, we managed to freeze and recover about $45,000 of the stolen money that Greg hadn’t spent yet. It isn’t the full amount, but it was enough.

Yesterday, the delivery truck arrived at our new house.

They unloaded a white Chevrolet transit van with a hydraulic wheelchair ramp. It has a blue interior, Leo’s favorite color.

When I rolled Leo up the ramp for the first time, he let out this loud, beautiful giggle that filled the entire driveway. He gripped his blue plastic water cup and shook it with excitement.

I sat in the driver’s seat and looked in the rearview mirror at my son. For the first time in three years, I felt like I could breathe.

My family is gone. I haven’t spoken to any of them since that Sunday dinner. But as I started the engine and felt the smooth ride of the new van, I knew we were going to be just fine. Leo has his anchor. And it isn’t Greg.