Chương 10
I stared at the phone.
“That makes no sense.”
“I know.”
“You could not refinance by pretending your income was higher.”
“I was hoping my hours would come back before they verified everything.”
Grandpa closed his eyes for a second at a red light.
“That is not how underwriting works.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew it then.”
Dad’s voice sharpened.
“Fine.”
The light changed.
Grandpa drove.
Dad continued.
“I knew enough to know I was making stupid choices.”
For the first time, he sounded angry at himself instead of cornered by us.
“I was paying cards with cards.”
He laughed once.
“I took a cash advance to cover the electric bill one month.”
I pictured Dad at the kitchen table, reading the sports section while Mom complained about the price of groceries.
He had seemed normal.
That bothered me.
Not because normal people did not have debt.
Because he had built normality around a hole large enough to swallow all of us.
“Why use my money?”
His voice dropped.
“Because it was there.”
The simplicity of the answer hurt.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was believable.
He did not say he deserved it.
He did not say I owed him.
He had seen money and a problem, and then fear had done the rest.
Grandpa asked, “Did you intend to repay it?”
“Yes.”
“With what?”
Dad went silent again.
Grandpa did not press.
He did not need to.
I rubbed my thumb along the edge of the phone case.
“Did you know about Grandma’s inheritance before it went into my account?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Elaine told me.”
“Did she know before I did?”
“Yes.”
The car seemed suddenly too small.
“How long?”
“A few weeks.”
I looked at Grandpa.
His face had gone pale.
“Why?” he asked.
Dad answered cautiously.
“I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
“I know what she told me.”
“Then say it.”
“She said you called her about the paperwork.”
Grandpa’s expression changed.
“I called her because Madison was seven months pregnant and I did not want estate documents dumped on her without context.”
My stomach twisted.
“You told Mom to keep it from me?”
“No.”
His answer came immediately.
“I told her I wanted to talk to you in person.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He swallowed.
“Because your mother called the next morning and said she had explained everything.”
I looked out the window.
The houses were gone now.
We were on the main road toward Grandpa’s neighborhood.
“Did you believe her?”
“Yes.”
Something sharp moved through me.
Not rage.
Something closer to grief.
Grandpa had been the person I trusted most.
He had not taken anything from me.
He had not lied deliberately.
But he had accepted somebody else’s version of my life without checking with me.
“You could have asked.”
“I should have.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He looked at me in the rearview mirror.
“I thought I had.”
I turned away.
Dad’s voice came through the speaker.
“Madison.”
“What?”
“There’s more.”
My body tensed.
Grandpa’s hand shifted toward the volume controls, then stopped.
“Say it.”
Dad took a breath.
“Your mother started moving money before Noah was born.”
“I know.”
“No.”
His voice changed.
“I mean before you gave her access to the account.”
The cold returned to my hands.
“How?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Dad.”
“She already had enough information.”
“What information?”
“Your account number.”
“That is not enough to transfer money.”
“I know.”
“Then how?”
He was silent too long.
Grandpa’s voice became harder.
“Richard.”
Dad finally said, “She had a power of attorney.”
I stopped breathing.
Even Grandpa did not speak.
The phrase hung inside the car.
I knew what it meant generally.
I did not know what it meant for me.
“What power of attorney?”
Dad swallowed audibly.
“One you signed.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You signed paperwork after Noah was born.”
My heart began pounding.
“That was hospital paperwork.”
“I know.”
“You just said before Noah was born.”
“I’m talking about when she used it later.”
“What did I sign?”
Dad hesitated.
“Elaine said you signed a limited financial power of attorney.”
“I did not.”
“Madison.”
“I would remember that.”
Grandpa pulled into a grocery store parking lot and stopped beneath a light.
He turned around in his seat.
“Richard, where is the document?”
“I don’t know.”
“You saw it?”
“A copy.”
“When?”
“October.”
“That was before Noah was born.”
“Yes.”
My scalp prickled.
I heard myself say, “I signed something in October.”
Grandpa looked at me.
“What?”
I tried to remember.
Not like a database.
The memory came in pieces.
Mom’s dining table.
A glass of ginger ale.
My swollen ankles.
A headache.
A stack of papers.
Mom complaining that the insurance company needed everything immediately.
“There were forms.”
Dad said nothing.
I continued.
“Mom said they were for adding me to some household insurance stuff.”
“What kind of insurance?” Grandpa asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you read them?”
The shame came fast.
“No.”
He nodded once.
No judgment.
That almost made it worse.
“I was eight months pregnant.”
My voice shook.
“I was tired.”
Grandpa said, “That is not the same as consent.”
Dad spoke quietly.
“I didn’t know what she told you.”
“You saw the document.”
“Yes.”
“And you never asked me about it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought you agreed.”
I laughed.
It came out ugly.
“Everybody thought I agreed to everything.”
No one answered.
Dad finally said, “I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“Then don’t say anything.”
I ended the call.
The silence afterward felt enormous.
Grandpa stayed parked.
People pushed carts under the fluorescent lights beyond us.
A teenager in a red jacket collected abandoned carts from the far row.
A woman loaded paper towels into an SUV while talking on her phone.
Life kept moving with insulting normality.
Grandpa turned toward me.
“We need to see that document.”
“Tonight?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
May you like
That surprised me.
He leaned back and rubbed both hands over his face.
