“Mom, you can’t. The plumber is coming today. We already scheduled—”
“Then you’ll pay him yourselves.”
Her mouth opened and closed. She looked genuinely confused, as if the concept of paying their own bills was foreign to her. I considered it, then stepped back and let her pass. She walked into my living room and froze. My dining table was covered with papers—bank statements, canceled checks, printed transaction histories, and a spreadsheet I’d created at 3:00 a.m. when sleep wouldn’t come.
“What is all this?” Jennifer whispered.
“Accountability,” I said. “Sit down.”
She sat. I remained standing. “Eighteen months ago, you asked me for help with a mortgage payment. Do you remember what you told me?”
“Mom, I don’t—”
“You said Derek’s commission had been delayed. Two weeks, you said. ‘Just a temporary cash-flow issue.’” I picked up the relevant statement. “I gave you $5,500.”
Jennifer stared at the table. “Two weeks later, you needed money for a medical emergency—$8,200. Then car repairs. Then a new roof. Then Derek’s ‘business investment’ that would pay me back triple.”
She flinched.
“The business deal fell through,” she mumbled.
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