“You weren’t supposed to dig into all that,” he said finally.
I closed my eyes for a second, not out of pain, but out of something that felt dangerously close to relief.
“You’re right,” I said. “I wasn’t supposed to.”
That was the whole design.
I wasn’t supposed to question.
I wasn’t supposed to check.
I wasn’t supposed to look closely enough to see where the money was actually going.
I was supposed to keep sending it.
Quietly.
Reliably.
Endlessly.
“You’re making this bigger than it is,” he said, trying again, slipping back into the version of himself that used to work so well.
“It’s just debt. People have debt.”
“Forty thousand dollars hidden under my name is not just debt,” I said. “It’s a decision. One you made without me.”
“It was temporary,” he insisted. “I was going to handle it.”
“When?” I asked. “Before or after you asked me to keep paying your mother eight thousand a month?”
He didn’t answer.
I pushed myself off the wall and walked into the kitchen, setting the envelope down on the counter beside the coffee mug I hadn’t bothered to wash yet.
“You know what the worst part is?” I said, my voice quieter now.
“It’s not the money.”
“It’s not even the lies.”
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