Bank statements. Wire confirmations. Mortgage payments. Insurance bills. Prescription reimbursements. Screenshots of messages. Every transfer, every date, every amount.
By midnight, the monthly payments alone totaled $720,000.
That did not include the roof, the kitchen, the SUV, gifts, flights, or endless emergencies.
Seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars.
And I had $611.83 left.
On December twenty-ninth, my mother texted:
Did you send it?
Then:
Mortgage drafts before the holiday weekend.
Then:
I already put down the deposit for New Year’s Eve food.
I replied:
I can’t anymore.
Her answer came instantly.
Can’t or won’t?
That was when I knew she had been waiting for this moment, ready to make me feel guilty.
I printed everything.
On New Year’s Eve, I drove back to Pittsburgh with the folder on the passenger seat.
My mother opened the door, annoyed first and surprised second.
Inside, my father watched football. Aunt Sandra arranged food on the remodeled counters I had paid for. The cinnamon candle burned again.
I walked into the dining room and placed the folder in the middle of the table.
“What is this?” my mother asked.
I looked at her.
“Since we’re talking about what I owe, I thought we should finally do the math.”
