“Some other time,” he’d written.
Not even sorry. Not even his own words.
“Sarah thinks…”
When did Danny stop thinking for himself? When did what I wanted become less important than what Richard wanted? A man whose face I barely remembered. Whose voice I’d heard maybe three times. Who somehow had enough power to erase me from a holiday in my own house.
Not my house anymore. That was the point, right? I’d given it away, signed all the papers. One month before it was completely theirs, but everyone knew what I meant to do. I’d played the nice mother, the helpful mom, the walking purse that opened whenever Danny sent a text about emergencies or tight spots or just needing a little help.
How many “little helps” add up to being used forever?
I put the car in reverse, then stopped.
I opened the notebook again and looked at the first page. Lawyer words, big and confusing. The lawyer’s voice played in my head from that morning. “One month waiting time, normal for houses this expensive, can be taken back under certain conditions.”
I’d barely listened then. I was too happy about being generous, too proud about helping.
Now those same files sat all over my desk like clues in a mystery movie. Bank papers, old checks, pictures of text messages where Danny asked for help. Always carefully worded.
“Mom, hate to ask, but…”
“Just until next paycheck…”
“Sarah’s really worried about money…”
I’d started at midnight, too awake to sleep, and worked backward through time. The pattern showed up fast. Each time I’d helped—and I’d helped a lot—the calls became fewer, the visits got shorter, the excuses got more creative.
March of last year: paid $6,000 for their bills. Danny called once that month, then didn’t call for seven weeks.
