“I know.”
“I swear.”
“I know.”
My father looked at us.
Something like shame passed over his face.
The attorney turned to my stepmother.
“As of this morning, all discretionary trust reimbursements are frozen.”
“You cannot do that.”
“I already did.”
“On whose authority?”
“The corporate trustee.”
My stepmother’s eyes flicked toward my father.
He said nothing.
The attorney continued.
“An external forensic accountant has been appointed.”
“For what?”
“To review four years of distributions.”
My stepmother laughed again.
But her face had changed.
“How dramatic.”
The attorney removed one sheet.
“Current preliminary amount under question is one hundred eighty-seven thousand four hundred twenty dollars.”
My stomach turned.
I didn’t understand what that amount meant.
My stepmother did.
Her face went blank.
My father whispered:
“One hundred eighty-seven?”
The attorney looked at him.
“That is why you were called home.”
He pressed one hand against his forehead.
“I thought it was around sixty.”
“That was before the card accounts were matched.”
My stepmother said:
“This is insane.”
The attorney turned another page.
“Private-school tuition for your daughter.”
My stepsister looked up.
“Summer sports program for your son.”
My stepbrother stared.
“Three luxury vacations.”
“Clothing.”
“Technology.”
“Home furnishings.”
“Vehicle lease payments.”
My father looked at his wife.
“A car?”
She answered quickly.
“The family SUV.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“The black one.”
Silence.
He understood.
Her personal vehicle.
The attorney continued.
“The trust paid twenty-one monthly lease reimbursements coded as beneficiary transportation.”
I whispered:
“I don’t even drive.”
Nobody answered.
Fourteen.
No license.
No permit yet.
My stepmother’s voice became smaller.
“It was used to take her places.”
I looked at her.
“When?”
She turned.
“You’ve ridden in it.”
“Twice.”
“That is still transportation.”
The attorney wrote something on her pad.
My stepmother stared.
“You’re enjoying this.”
The attorney looked up.
“No.”
“You people always enjoy destroying families over paperwork.”
My father finally spoke.
“No.”
His voice sounded different.
“This family was already being destroyed.”
She turned to him.
“You’re choosing her.”
I felt the old reflex immediately.
Guilt.
My presence had always been framed as a choice someone else had to make.
Me or peace.
Me or vacation.
Me or her children.
Me or my father’s marriage.
My father looked toward me.