My father kept staring at the first page.
The dining room was so quiet that I could hear the clock above the kitchen doorway.
He turned the paper over.
Then he looked at the next one.
“Rebecca, what is this?”
My mother stood beside the table.
She had both hands pressed together.
“Arthur, please sit down.”
“I asked you a question.”
She glanced at me.
I didn't move.
My father lifted another statement.
“These transfers came from Chloe's account?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
He looked at the dates.
“How long?”
“Three years.”
He slowly lowered the paper.
“Three years?”
I nodded again.
Sebastian stepped away from the doorway.
“Wait. Chloe was paying something?”
My father didn't look at him.
He was still watching my mother.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Rebecca swallowed.
“I was going to.”
“When?”
She didn't answer.
Dad placed the statement on the table.
His hand was shaking slightly.
I had never seen him handle a piece of paper like that.
Usually, he was careful with documents.
He kept household records in a cabinet in his office.
He knew when bills were due and when insurance payments were scheduled.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
He picked up the next receipt.
“Thirty-six payments.”
I looked at him.
“That's right.”
“Every month?”
“Yes.”
He ran his finger along the printed reference number.
“Same account?”
I nodded.
My mother finally spoke.
“It was temporary.”
Dad turned toward her.
“Temporary for three years?”
She looked down.
I wanted to say something.
But I didn't.
For once, I wanted someone else to ask the questions.
My father returned to the statements.
He compared the first transfer with the most recent one.
Then he looked at the amount.
“Why was Chloe making these payments?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Arthur, this isn't how I wanted you to find out.”
He stared at her.
“Then how did you want me to find out?”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Sebastian pulled out a chair.
He sat down slowly.
“What mortgage?”
Dad finally looked at him.
“The mortgage on this house.”
Sebastian frowned.
“But you told me the house was paid off.”
“It was supposed to be.”
My mother closed her eyes.
That was when I understood something.
My father wasn't just surprised that I had been sending money.
He was surprised that the mortgage existed at all.
I looked at the papers spread across the table.
The same receipts I had kept because my mother told me the bank might need them.
Now they were the only explanation in the room.
Dad turned another page.
“Rebecca, tell me what happened.”
She pulled out the chair opposite him.
“I was handling the payments.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“I know.”
He pressed his lips together.
I could see him trying to remain calm.
He looked at me again.
“Did your mother tell you what these payments were for?”
“She said they were for the house.”
“Did she tell you we had a mortgage?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
His face tightened.
“She told you that?”
“Yes.”
He looked down.
I remembered the first time Rebecca had come to my room with a request.
She had been worried.
She had told me there was a payment that needed to be made.
I had never questioned whether the house was in danger.
I had simply helped.
Dad placed the papers in a neat pile.
“Did you know I believed this house was paid off?”
I looked at my mother.
She didn't look back.
“No,” I said. “I didn't know that.”
My father sat down.
For a few seconds, he said nothing.
Then he asked the question that made the room feel even smaller.
“Rebecca, what exactly have you been telling our daughter?”
My mother began to cry.
I didn't feel relieved.
I didn't feel victorious.
I just felt tired.
The Christmas dinner was still on the table.
The roast pork had gone cold.
The white mug with its little message stood beside my empty plate.
I looked at it and wondered how something so ordinary could suddenly feel so insulting.
Dad picked up the first statement again.
He studied the account information.
Then he looked at Rebecca.
“Why is this being handled through Chloe?”
My mother wiped her face.
“I didn't want to worry you.”
He gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
“You didn't want to worry me?”
She looked toward me.
“Chloe, please.”
I held her gaze.
I had heard those words before.
They usually came just before another request.
This time, I didn't answer.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: My Mother Had Always Asked for Help Behind Closed Doors, but My Father Was Finally Hearing the Questions I Had Never Asked
The Christmas Gift That Made Me Realize I Had Never Been Seen the Way I Thought I Was
Part 5 of 20
