Chapter 2 - THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS A MONTH
The officers cleared the house before sunset.
Some relatives protested.
Some acted offended.
Others slipped away without looking at me.
That told me exactly who knew something was wrong.
My mother had to be restrained after she shoved Officer Ramirez.
Mason was detained for questioning.
The folder was taken as evidence.
The birthday cake I had bought for Frederick remained unopened in the passenger seat of my truck.
By seven that evening, we were sitting inside a pediatric urgent care clinic.
Frederick had a viral infection.
The doctor said his fever was high but manageable.
He needed fluids, rest, medication, and monitoring.
I felt relief.
Then guilt hit me.
Amy had been taking care of him while serving twenty adults.
I looked at her from across the small examination room.
She had fallen asleep in the chair.
Her head rested against the wall.
Even asleep, she looked tense.
That destroyed something inside me.
I thought back over the past year.
Every time I had asked how things were going at home, Amy said, “Fine.”
Every time my mother told me Amy was overwhelmed, I believed her.
Every time Teresa asked for more money, I sent it.
Three thousand dollars every month.
Sometimes more.
She said it covered groceries.
Medical supplies.
Baby clothes.
Utilities.
Extra help.
I had never checked.
Why would I?
She was my mother.
That was the answer I had given myself every time Amy looked uncomfortable.
That night, after Frederick finally fell asleep, I sat beside Amy.
“Tell me everything.”
She opened her eyes.
“What?”
“Everything my mother has been doing.”
Amy looked away.
I could see fear immediately.
Not fear of Teresa.
Fear of me.
That was worse.
“Amy.”
She swallowed.
“I tried to tell you once.”
The words hit me hard.
“When?”
“Three months after Frederick was born.”
I remembered.
I had just started supervising a major commercial project.
I was working twelve-hour days.
Amy had mentioned that my mother was “being difficult.”
I had laughed.
I told her Teresa had always been intense.
I told Amy not to take it personally.
I closed my eyes.
“What happened after that?”
Amy stared at her hands.
“She started coming over when you were at work.”
“How often?”
“Almost every day.”
My stomach tightened.
“She said you asked her to.”
“I never did.”
“I know that now.”
Amy took a slow breath.
“She rearranged things.”
“She threw out things I bought.”
“She decided what Frederick ate.”
“She told me when I could take him outside.”
“She started opening our mail.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“She said you gave her permission.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
Every sentence felt like another nail being hammered into me.
“Why didn’t you tell me again?”
Amy looked directly at me.
“I did.”
I said nothing.
She continued.
“You told me she was trying to help.”
I remembered.
God.
I remembered.
My mother had called me at work afterward.
She said Amy was emotional.
Exhausted.
Unstable.
She told me not to stress my wife with questions.
She said she would handle things.
And I thanked her.
The shame was almost unbearable.
Amy rubbed her palms together.
“Then Teresa told me something.”
“What?”
“She said if I kept complaining about her, she would make sure everyone knew I was an unfit mother.”
My entire body went cold.
“She said what?”
“She said she had photographs.”
“What photographs?”
“Pictures of the house when it was messy after Frederick was born.”
Amy’s eyes filled with tears.
“She took pictures of dirty laundry.”
“Dishes.”
“Diapers.”
“She said she could make it look like I neglected him.”
I stood up so fast the chair scraped the floor.
“Amy.”
“I was barely sleeping.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You don’t.”
The room went silent.
That hurt because she was right.
I didn’t know.
I had been living inside my career while my wife was fighting a war inside our home.
And the person attacking her was somebody I had invited through the front door.
Then Amy said something that made my blood run cold.
“She also made me sign papers.”
I stared at her.
“What papers?”
“She said they were insurance forms for Frederick.”
I sat back down.
“Do you have copies?”
“No.”
“Where did you sign them?”
“At the kitchen table.”
“When?”
“About six weeks ago.”
My mouth went dry.
“What did they look like?”
Amy thought for a moment.
“Legal documents.”
“Lots of small print.”
“Your mother covered most of the pages with sticky notes and just showed me where to sign.”
I thought about the transfer documents found in Mason’s folder.
Then I thought about the copied signature.
Then I realized this was probably much bigger than my house.
I pulled out my phone.
May you like
I logged into our bank account.
And what I saw next changed everything.
