Dad began by stating the date, his full name, and his address. He confirmed that he knew what day it was and who the Prime Minister was, just as Mrs. Vanterpool had instructed him. Then he looked into the camera and said, “This is for Callum, mostly.” Beside him on the desk sat an old Clarks shoebox secured with an elastic band. Dad had never trusted paperless banking. For forty years, he had kept every monthly bank statement delivered to his house. Starting in March 2021, he had gone through them with a biro, marking transactions he said he hadn’t made.

There were cash withdrawals he hadn’t authorised, transfers he didn’t recognise, and even a standing order to a leasing company for a vehicle he had never driven. Dad read out eleven transactions, listing their dates and amounts before explaining that there were many more inside the box. Mrs. Vanterpool had personally checked the records against the bank statements. The total came to $61,420, taken steadily over four years. Then Dad said something that I still cannot forget. “I’m not angry about the money. He’d have had half of it anyway.” He paused before adding, “I’m angry that he thought I didn’t know.” I looked across at Callum, but he didn’t move. My father had known all along.