Chapter 3 - THIRTY DAYS
“Thirty days?”
Harrison stared at the paper.
“You’re giving us thirty days?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
He looked toward the staircase.
Then lowered his voice.
“Sloan is going to lose it.”
I almost smiled.
“That sounds like Sloan’s problem.”
“Mom, come on.”
“No.”
He pushed the paper back toward me.
“We don’t have enough saved for a deposit.”
That caught my attention.
“Why not?”
His face tightened.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve lived here rent-free for eleven months. You told me that was the whole point. To save money.”
“We’ve had expenses.”
“What expenses?”
He looked away.
I thought of the Gucci handbag.
Something uncomfortable moved through me.
“How much have you saved?”
“That’s private.”
“In my house?”
“Yes.”
I leaned back.
There it was again.
The strange logic they had built.
My money was family money.
Their money was private.
My house was communal.
Their belongings were sacred.
My feelings were drama.
Their feelings were emergencies.
I folded my arms.
“Thirty days.”
He left for work angry.
At least that was what he said.
Work.
Harrison had lost his sales position eight months earlier.
Since then, he claimed he was doing consulting projects.
I had never understood exactly what those projects were.
He left the house most mornings around ten.
Sometimes he came home at three.
Sometimes after dinner.
He always had explanations.
Client meeting.
Networking.
Interview.
Project.
I had believed him because mothers have a dangerous habit of believing the version of their children they desperately want to be true.
Sloan came downstairs around noon.
She had changed into black leggings and a cream sweater.
She dropped the move-out notice on the counter.
“You’re not throwing us out.”
“I am.”
“Harrison says you’re emotional because of what happened yesterday.”
“Harrison says a lot of things.”
She leaned both palms on the counter.
“You’re going to make your own son homeless over a cake?”
“No. Your husband has thirty days to find housing.”
“You know we can’t afford that.”
Again, that word.
Afford.
I looked at her expensive sweater.
Her manicured nails.
Her newest iPhone.
Then at the burned designer handbag sitting on the dining table.
“You seem to afford plenty.”
Her expression sharpened.
“That was a gift.”
“From a man with no steady job.”
She straightened.
“What are you implying?”
“I’m asking a question.”
“No, you’re accusing us of something.”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“I didn’t say ‘us.’”
For the first time, Sloan looked rattled.
Only for a second.
Then she smiled.
“You’re becoming paranoid.”
Maybe I was.
But that afternoon, I noticed something strange.
I went into my office to find an old insurance document.
The drawer where I kept bank statements was slightly open.
I always closed that drawer.
Always.
I pulled it open.
The folders were there.
Property taxes.
Insurance.
Retirement.
Emergency account.
I froze.
The emergency account folder had been moved.
I knew because I arranged everything alphabetically.
Now it was sitting behind the retirement folder.
I opened it.
The last paper statement was from four months earlier.
I had switched to electronic statements after Harrison offered to help me “simplify things.”
Suddenly, I remembered that conversation.
“You don’t need all this paper, Mom. Let me help you set up online access.”
He had sat beside me.
Clicked through menus.
Asked me to confirm passwords.
I had trusted him completely.
My stomach tightened.
I opened my laptop.
Logged into my bank.
The password failed.
I tried again.
Failed.
I tried the backup password I usually used.
Still failed.
Then I clicked “forgot password.”
A message appeared.
RECOVERY CODE SENT TO PHONE ENDING IN 4412.
My phone ended in 7789.
I stared at the screen.
Harrison’s number ended in 4412.
For a long moment, I couldn’t breathe.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned.
Sloan was standing in the doorway.
She looked at my laptop.
Then at me.
May you like
And said softly:
“You really shouldn’t go digging through things you don’t understand.”
