Chapter 3 - HANNAH’S QUESTION
My niece Hannah called me three days later.
Twelve years old.
Too observant.
“Are you mad at Grandma?”
“Adults are working through something.”
“I hate when adults say that.”
I smiled.
“What would you prefer?”
“Yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Are you mad at Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Are you mad at Grandpa?”
“Less.”
She considered.
“Am I allowed to be mad at people you’re mad at?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you should decide how you feel based on your own relationship.”
“That sounds annoying.”
“It is.”
She was quiet.
Then:
“Mom said you ruined the anniversary.”
I exhaled.
“What do you think?”
“I think she shouldn't have said she planned it if you planned it.”
My throat tightened.
“Hannah.”
“What?”
“You don't need to pick sides.”
“I’m not.”
Then:
“I just have eyes.”
Apparently children inherit great-aunts’ honesty.
She continued:
“Did you really pay for my summer camp?”
I went still.
“Who told you?”
“I heard Mom and Grandma arguing.”
I closed my eyes.
“You weren't supposed to know.”
“Why?”
“Because when someone helps your parents, the child shouldn't feel like she owes them.”
Silence.
Then:
“Thank you.”
“You don't owe me a thank-you.”
“I can still say it.”
Fair.
Then Hannah asked something that hurt more.
“Why does Mom always say she pays for everything?”
I did not answer.
Because that was Camille’s conversation to have with her daughter.
“I think you should ask your mom.”
“She'll get mad.”
“Maybe.”
“Everyone gets mad when I ask things.”
I hated how familiar that sounded.
“Hannah.”
“Yes?”
“You are allowed to ask questions.”
She went quiet.
“Okay.”
After we hung up, I messaged Camille.
Hannah called me. She has questions about camp expenses. I did not discuss your finances. Please don't put her in the middle of this.
Camille responded:
You already put everyone in the middle when you pulled that stunt.
I stared.
Then another:
Stay away from my daughter until this blows over.
That hurt.
Hannah and I were close.
Movies.
Bookstores.
School plays.
I almost responded angrily.
Instead:
I will respect that.
Boundaries are painful even when the other person uses them for bad reasons.
I would not undermine her parenting because she had hurt me.
That was the difference between us I needed to preserve.
Then Dad called.
He had found the missing eight thousand dollars from Camille’s wedding.
Mom had transferred it into something labeled:
Family Reserve.
“What’s that?”
Dad sounded embarrassed.
“I didn't know it existed.”
The account was in Mom’s name.
Authorized secondary user:
Camille.
My stomach tightened.
“How much?”
“Currently fourteen thousand.”
“Where did the money come from?”
“Mostly me.”
“Mostly?”
“And some transfers from you.”
I went cold.
Not direct unauthorized withdrawals.
Payments I had sent to Mom for specific needs.
Some of those funds apparently landed in Family Reserve.
Dad had given Mom money for events.
I gave Mom money for emergencies.
Whatever remained entered the account.
Then Camille accessed it.
“How much has she used?”
Dad hesitated.
“Over the last four years?”
“Yes.”
“Forty-three thousand.”
I stared at the wall.
“For what?”
“That is what we're trying to understand.”
Receipts included:
Family travel.
Birthday dinners.
Camille’s beauty treatments before her wedding vow-renewal photos.
A designer handbag marked “Mother’s Day.”
School fundraiser tickets.
Restaurant bills.
Some legitimate family costs.
Some not.
Dad said:
“Your mother says Camille needed help.”
There it was again.
Need.
“What does Mom say about using my emergency transfers?”
“She says once you sent money, it became hers to allocate.”
Legally, probably often true.
Emotionally, revealing.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“I’m not trying to recover that money.”
“I know.”
“Then don't turn this into a forensic trial because you think I need one.”
Silence.
“What do you need?”
I thought.
“I need everyone to start paying for their own promises.”
May you like
He understood.
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