My father pushed his chair away from the table.
He stood up and walked toward the kitchen.
I thought he was leaving.
Instead, he returned with a glass of water.
He placed it beside the papers.
Then he sat down again.
“Start from the beginning.”
My mother shook her head.
“Arthur, not in front of Sebastian.”
Dad looked at her.
“Sebastian lives here too. He deserves to know what is happening.”
Sebastian leaned forward.
“I think I deserve an explanation.”
My mother looked overwhelmed.
I watched her fingers move against the edge of the table.
She had always done that when she was nervous.
I used to think it was a harmless habit.
Now I noticed it every time she avoided a question.
Dad pointed toward the receipts.
“Why was our daughter paying this?”
Rebecca took a breath.
“There were payments we had to make.”
“What payments?”
“The mortgage.”
He looked at her.
“You told me this house was paid off.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you tell Chloe there was a mortgage?”
My mother looked at me.
I answered before she could.
“Because she asked me to help every month.”
Dad turned toward me.
“How much did you know?”
“I knew there was a payment due. I knew she wanted it made on time. I knew she didn't want you involved.”
My father looked stunned.
“You never thought to ask me?”
I lowered my eyes.
“I thought you knew.”
That was the truth.
I had believed my parents were working together.
I had believed my mother was simply handling something that my father didn't have time to manage.
I had never imagined that the two of us were living with completely different versions of the same household.
My father rubbed his forehead.
“And she told you not to mention it?”
“Yes.”
“Every month?”
“Almost every time.”
Rebecca whispered my name.
I looked at her.
She shook her head slightly.
I understood the request.
She wanted me to stop.
But I had spent three years stopping myself.
I wasn't going to do it again.
Dad looked at the receipts.
“Did you ever ask Chloe for money directly?”
Rebecca nodded.
“I needed help.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
She looked away.
He continued.
“Did you tell her I knew?”
My mother hesitated.
Then she nodded.
Dad's expression changed.
“You told her I knew?”
“I didn't want her to worry.”
He stood up again.
“You told her I knew?”
His voice was louder this time.
Sebastian looked between them.
I remained beside my suitcase.
I hadn't taken off my coat.
My fingers were still wrapped around the handle.
I suddenly felt out of place in that dining room.
Not because I was leaving.
Because I had never realized how much of my life had been spent trying to keep everyone else comfortable.
Dad returned to his chair.
He looked at the transfer dates.
“Why did you need thirty-six payments?”
My mother pressed her lips together.
“I was trying to keep everything current.”
“Everything?”
“The house expenses.”
He shook his head.
“You said there was no mortgage.”
“I know what I said.”
“Then explain the money.”
She began crying harder.
Sebastian interrupted.
“Can someone tell me whether the house is actually in trouble?”
Dad looked at him.
“I don't know.”
That answer frightened Sebastian more than anything else had.
He put his phone on the table.
For once, he wasn't interested in recording anyone.
I watched my father turn the papers over again.
He was trying to make sense of the dates.
I knew those dates.
I had lived around them.
The same day each month.
The same quiet knock on my bedroom door.
The same request.
The same promise that things would become easier soon.
I remembered the months when I had been working late.
My mother would stand in the doorway and wait until I finished a call.
Sometimes she would sit on the edge of my bed.
Sometimes she would simply hand me the information and ask me to transfer the money.
I had never complained.
I had even apologized when I couldn't send it immediately.
That memory made me feel ashamed.
Not because I had helped.
Because I had believed I needed to apologize for asking questions.
My father looked up.
“Chloe, did you keep every confirmation?”
“Yes.”
“All thirty-six?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at the folder.
“Are these the originals?”
“They're the copies I saved after each transfer.”
He nodded.
Then he looked at my mother.
“You knew she was keeping these?”
Rebecca nodded slowly.
“I asked her to.”
Dad looked confused.
“Why?”
She didn't answer.
I finally spoke.
“She said the bank might need them if there was a problem.”
My father looked at the blue folder.
Then at Rebecca.
He seemed to understand that the folder had not been kept for the reason she had given me.
But he didn't say anything.
He simply gathered the papers.
I stepped toward the door.
My mother noticed.
“Chloe, where are you going?”
I looked at my suitcase.
“Home.”
She flinched.
For three years, that house had been called my home.
Now I was standing in its doorway with a suitcase while my parents argued over money I had been sending.
I didn't know what else to call the apartment.
But I knew I needed to leave.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: I Had Expected My Father to Be Angry With Me, but His Next Question Made Me Realize How Little He Had Known
The Christmas Gift That Made Me Realize I Had Never Been Seen the Way I Thought I Was
Part 6 of 20
