That afternoon, my father called.
I answered immediately.
“Hello, Dad.”
“Chloe.”
His voice sounded tired.
“Have you got a moment?”
“Yes.”
“I want to talk about the payments.”
I sat down.
“Okay.”
He asked me whether I could bring the folder when we met.
I told him I would.
Then he asked something else.
“Did your mother ever explain how much was left on the mortgage?”
“No.”
“Did she give you a balance?”
“No.”
He was silent.
I heard him breathe into the phone.
“Then how did you know what to send?”
“She gave me the amount.”
“Every month?”
“Yes.”
He paused.
“Did it ever change?”
“Sometimes.”
“How often?”
I thought about it.
“I don't remember exactly. But she usually told me when the amount was different.”
He didn't respond.
I could imagine him sitting in his office.
I could imagine the papers on his desk.
He had probably taken them away from the dining room.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Did you know there was a mortgage?”
He took a moment.
“I knew there had been financial arrangements in the past.”
That wasn't what I had asked.
“But you believed the house was paid off?”
“Yes.”
I lowered my eyes.
“That's what I believed too.”
He sighed.
“I should have checked.”
I didn't know what to say.
My father had always been someone who expected other people to take responsibility.
Now he was admitting he had failed to check something important.
It wasn't an apology.
But it was the first honest thing I had heard from him since Christmas Eve.
“Can we meet tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Bring everything you have.”
“I will.”
After the call, my mother sent another message.
She wanted to speak privately.
I didn't answer.
A few minutes later, she called.
I picked up.
“Chloe, your father is making this sound worse than it is.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“What does that mean?”
“He keeps questioning me about the money.”
“He should.”
“I'm your mother.”
I closed my eyes.
I knew what she was doing.
She was reminding me of the relationship.
She wanted me to remember that she was the person who had raised me.
The person who had cooked dinner.
The person who had helped me through difficult days.
And she was right.
She was my mother.
But that didn't make the payments disappear.
“Mom, I helped because I trusted you.”
“I know.”
“You asked me not to tell Dad.”
“I was trying to avoid problems.”
“Then why did you tell him the house was paid off?”
She became quiet.
I waited.
“Things were complicated.”
I looked at the blue folder.
“Then explain them.”
She sighed.
“Not over the phone.”
I didn't push.
I was beginning to understand that every conversation with her followed the same pattern.
She would give me just enough information to keep me involved.
Then, when I asked for the whole story, she would postpone the answer.
I wasn't going to accept that anymore.
“I'll talk to Dad tomorrow.”
“Chloe, please don't turn against me.”
I felt something heavy in my chest.
“I haven't turned against you.”
“Then help me.”
I stared at the counter.
“I have been helping you for three years.”
She didn't answer.
I ended the call.
That evening, I opened my laptop.
I had work waiting.
There were messages from clients.
There were deadlines.
There were projects I had promised to complete.
I began working.
It felt strange to return to something ordinary after everything that had happened.
But it also reminded me that my work was real.
The campaigns were real.
The money I earned was real.
And the payments I had made were real.
Before going to bed, I checked the folder again.
I counted the receipts.
Thirty-six.
I arranged them by date.
Then I placed the folder beside my documents.
I was going to meet my father.
And this time, I wasn't going to let anyone tell me that I had imagined what happened.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: When I Returned to the House, the White Mug Was Still Beside My Plate, but Nobody Was Pretending Christmas Had Been Normal
The Christmas Gift That Made Me Realize I Had Never Been Seen the Way I Thought I Was
Part 10 of 20
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