It has been several months since that Thanksgiving morning. My brother did not call the police, entirely out of respect for our mother’s wishes, but our relationship is completely broken. I signed a legally binding agreement to repay every single cent of the $23,000, plus the $3,200 for the accountant.

I took on a second job working nights at a warehouse to make the monthly payments to her trust. My brother now manages all of her care and finances, and I am only allowed to visit her when he is present.

When I sit across from her now, holding her fragile, wrinkled hand, she usually doesn’t know my name. She just smiles pleasantly at me like I’m a friendly stranger. The money will eventually be paid back, but the betrayal cannot be undone.

I have to live for the rest of my life knowing that in my mother’s final years of clarity, the last lucid memory she had of her daughter was knowing I was stealing from her, and just wishing I had loved her enough to ask.