Chương 8
“No.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“He knows some of it was for us.”
“Some.”
“Yes.”
“How much does he think was for me?”
“I don’t know.”
I covered my mouth with my hand.
For years, Patrick’s comments about my dependence had carried a confidence I had mistaken for arrogance.
Maybe some of it had been arithmetic.
Wrong arithmetic, but arithmetic nevertheless.
I saw flashes of conversations that had irritated me and then disappeared.
Patrick asking whether business was slow again.
Jessica once mentioning that Mom worried about me “making rent.”
My aunt Carol telling me I was lucky to have parents who still helped so much.
I had assumed they meant grocery money.
Tires.
Camp.
The visible things.
“What did Mom tell him the money was for?”
Dad said nothing.
“Dad.”
“Rent.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“And?”
“Utilities.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know all of it.”
“You know enough.”
“Car repairs.”
“The transmission?”
“Yes.”
“Patrick paid that directly.”
“I know.”
“So Mom told him I needed more money for the same repair?”
“I think so.”
I sat back down slowly.
That was not exaggeration anymore.
That was a lie with a number attached.
“Did she take money from him in my name?”
“Allison.”
“Did she?”
“She never forged anything.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“She asked him for help and let him believe some of it was going to you.”
“Did any of it actually come to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You would know if twenty thousand dollars came into my life.”
He winced audibly.
“You’re right.”
“Did any of it?”
“Maybe five hundred once.”
“For what?”
“Your tires.”
I looked toward the driveway, where those tires had been replaced months ago.
My mother had given me one hundred eighty dollars.
I had paid the rest.
“Mom gave me one eighty.”
Dad swore quietly.
It was one of the few times in my life I had heard him do it.
“So where did the rest go?”
“I don’t know.”
Now the phrase sounded different.
Less evasive.
More frightened.
“Dad, what is going on?”
“I need to talk to your mother.”
“You’ve had a year to talk to her.”
“I didn’t know the numbers were this tangled.”
“Tangled?”
“Allison, please.”
“No.”
My voice shook.
“You do not get to call this tangled like somebody misfiled a receipt.”
He breathed out slowly.
“You’re right.”
I almost did not recognize the words.
“I should have dealt with it sooner.”
“Yes.”
“I kept thinking she’d straighten it out.”
“She was lying about me.”
“I know.”
“You let Patrick believe I was living off him.”
“I didn’t realize how much he believed.”
“That’s a very convenient distinction.”
“I know.”
There was no defense in his voice this time.
That made me angrier, not less.
Because without resistance, I could hear how tired he was.
And beneath the tiredness was something I had not expected.
Fear.
“Is there more?” I asked.
He did not answer quickly enough.
I closed my eyes.
“Of course there is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Dad.”
“I mean that differently now.”
His voice dropped.
“I don’t know what else she told him.”
The room seemed to narrow around me.
I looked at my bank statements on the laptop.
My name.
My money.
My ordinary little life.
Somewhere else, a second version of me existed in family conversations.
A version who could not pay rent.
A version whose parents covered bills.
A version whose brother quietly financed emergencies.
A version useful enough to explain missing money.
“Did Patrick give Mom cash?”
“Sometimes.”
“Checks?”
“Transfers, mostly.”
“Were they labeled?”
“I don’t know.”
I almost snapped at him again, then stopped.
There was a practical question underneath the anger.
“Can you get the records?”
“Yes.”
“Will you?”
He hesitated.
That hesitation changed something between us.
“Dad.”
“She’ll know what I’m doing.”
“I hope so.”
“She’s going to feel cornered.”
“She should.”
“That never goes well.”
“For who?”
He did not answer.
I leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.
“Send me whatever you can find.”
“Allison.”
“I’m not posting it online.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“You absolutely thought I might.”
“I think you’re angry.”
“I am.”
“I also think Patrick is angry.”
“He showed up at my kid’s birthday because Mom told him I was disrespecting the family.”
“That was wrong.”
“Thank you.”
“But if he thinks he’s been supporting you for years, you can understand why he’s resentful.”
I hated how reasonable that sounded.
Not because Patrick had behaved well.
He had not.
But resentment built on false information was still resentment with a cause.
“Does he know the truth?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Your mother asked me not to tell him.”
I laughed once.
“She asked.”
“Yes.”
“And you said okay.”
Dad said nothing.
I stood and walked to the dark kitchen window.
My reflection looked tired and unfamiliar.
“Tomorrow morning, tell him.”
“Allison.”
“Tell him before Mom gets a chance to build another version.”
“I need to talk to her first.”
“No.”
“She’s my wife.”
“And I’m your daughter.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“It has been exactly what this is about for thirty-four years.”
The words came out before I could soften them.
Dad inhaled sharply.
I immediately wanted them back.
Not because they were entirely untrue.
Because they were too large for the moment.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No.”
His voice was quiet.
“Maybe you should have.”
That silenced me.
We stayed on the phone without speaking.
The refrigerator motor started again.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
Ethan was probably turning over in bed.
Finally Dad said, “I’ll call Patrick in the morning.”
“Before Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
I did not fully trust him.
That realization hurt more than anything my mother had done that night.
“Okay.”
“And Allison?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
I stared at the permission slip beneath the magnet.
He had apologized before.
Usually for arguments.
For misunderstandings.
For not calling sooner.
May you like
Never like this.
“I don’t know what to do with that yet.”
