His mother had recognized him instantly. Something about the configuration of his face brought on the painful memories of his biological father. He found out from her that she had been abused repeatedly by two brothers in the household she was working in. Her life had been a nightmare. She told him with frankness that it was only her fear of hell that made her not suffocate her baby in his sleep. She had a new family now and didn’t want to be reminded of her secret shame. His biological mother was not beautiful by Asian standards; she had the burnished brown skin of the working class, the diminutive height and round face that he never saw in Filipino TV and film, unless the person was a thief or the comic relief. But in the hours of his visit, she had made him a pot of arroz caldo and spoke with her head down. He saw a gracefulness in her movements, a kind of moving beauty he rarely witnessed. Afterward, she had shooed him out of her kitchen before her new husband came through the front door.

He never reached back out.

“Dorsey . . .” He hated that low tone in her voice. Why had he even told her that? He had told no one about that miserable and desperate trip. It was the beginnings of the cold cynicism that pervaded his thinking these days. He had seen too many people crushed under the heel of money to be idealistic about mere ideas.

“My adoptive mom was a mother in all of those perfect ways, though. She was warm and supportive, and I’ve molded my life after her.”

“Why are you building unaffordable homes in poor neighborhoods, then?” The sharpness was gone from her voice. It was simply a question.

“For both of them, actually,” he said. “Any sufficient humanitarian effort requires financial support. Sometimes we can’t be precious about where that support comes from.” If Netherfield Court didn’t go through, his mother’s foundation was finished. All his plans for learning centers and schools for girls all over the world would never receive the funding to get off the ground.

Liza huffed and crossed her arms. “How does one ethically amass this much money?”

Dorsey shrugged. He touched the big screen on the dashboard, changing the playlist from his conspicuous “Planet Money” podcast to some nice and safe pop music. “How does one ethically consume in a capitalist society?”