Chapter 8 - The Audit of Arthur
My father met me at a neutral diner halfway between the suburbs and the city—a greasy spoon with sticky laminate booths and chipped mugs of dark roast. He looked twenty years older than his fifty-eight years. His hands, calloused and grease-stained from the plant, gripped the edge of the table as if it were a life raft in a hurricane.
Across from him, I laid out three manila folders.
"I thought you were helping with groceries, Sylvia," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "Every time I asked your mother why the savings account wasn't growing, she told me inflation was eating everything. She said you were doing well in tech and sending gifts out of the goodness of your heart."
"Dad," I said gently, sliding the first folder toward him. "Look at the statements."
He opened it. Inside were five years of bank transfers from my account into Evelyn’s checking account. Not gifts. Not discretionary spending. Emergency bailouts.
"March 2021: Nine thousand dollars to prevent foreclosure on your home because Mom didn't pay the property taxes," I read aloud. "August 2022: Six thousand dollars for Briana's 'tuition'—which she dropped out of two weeks later without requesting a refund. December 2023: Three thousand dollars because Mom said you were behind on the heating bill."
Dad’s eyes widened. "Behind on heating? I paid the oil company cash! I took overtime every Saturday for four months!"
"She took the cash, Dad. And she used it to pay the minimum balances on three credit cards she took out in your name."
I slid the third folder across the table. It was the credit report my financial adviser had helped me run on his identity with his power of attorney paperwork from when he had his hip surgery.
Arthur’s face drained of all color. He looked down at the paper, his mouth slightly ajar. "There are four cards here. Discover... Chase Sapphire... Nordstrom? I don't even know what a Nordstrom is!"
"Briana does," I said coldly. "And Mom does. Dad, they've been running a carousel of debt for half a decade. When the debt got too close to suffocating them, Mom used emotional blackmail on me to plug the dam. And when I stopped answering the phone last month, they stole my login to buy an apartment full of velvet so Briana could post Instagram reels looking like a millionaire."
Arthur didn't yell. That was the most terrifying part. He sat in the booth, perfectly motionless, as the waitress dropped off two plates of eggs and hash browns neither of us would touch.
"She told me you were cold," Arthur whispered. "Yesterday, she came home crying, screaming that you had disowned the family, that you were arrogant because of your salary. She said Briana was practically sleeping in an alley because of your ego."
"Briana has a furnished studio on Maple Avenue with the rent paid through January," I replied. "After that, she has to pay Mr. Kostas six hundred and fifty dollars a month. She can earn that working twenty hours a week at Target."
Arthur slowly closed the folders, smoothing his rough palms over the cardboard covers. He took off his wire-rimmed glasses, rubbed his eyes, and exhaled a breath that sounded like a tire deflating.
"I gave her my life, Sylvia," he murmured. "Every paycheck. Every bonus. Thirty years of sweat. And she turned our daughters into a predator and a victim."
"Not a victim anymore, Dad," I said, reaching across the table to cover his hand. "I'm out. The question is: what are you going to do?"
May you like
He looked up at me, his gaze clearing, the fog of decades finally burning off. "First, I'm going to the bank to open an account in my name alone. Second... I'm going home to change the locks."
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