Chapter 3 - I HAD BEEN SENDING THEM MONEY FOR SEVEN YEARS
I began with my own bank statements.
Seven years.
Search:
COLLINS
Monthly transfers appeared immediately.
$600.
$750.
$900.
Eventually $1,100.
Money I sent my parents.
It started when Dad’s printing business lost a major contract.
He never asked directly.
Mom did.
“Just for a few months.”
Mortgage was tight.
Dad needed breathing room.
Chelsea was twenty-one and still in college.
I was twenty-five, working my first decent salaried job.
I sent $600.
Then another $600.
By Christmas, it had become routine.
Whenever I tried stopping, Mom had a reason.
Property tax.
Dad’s dental work.
Heating system.
Chelsea needed tuition help.
Mom’s car repair.
Dad’s business insurance.
I increased the amount as my salary grew.
I had never considered myself “supporting” my parents.
I told myself I was helping.
Temporary help that somehow lasted seven years.
I opened a spreadsheet.
Total direct transfers:
$78,400.
I sat back.
Then remembered other things.
Their roof repair.
$6,700.
Mom’s deductible after surgery.
$3,200.
A property-tax shortfall two years earlier.
$4,850.
Dad’s business-account emergency.
$5,000.
Total known help crossed ninety-eight thousand dollars.
I stared at the number.
Nearly one hundred thousand dollars had flowed from me to my parents.
Yet Chelsea believed money flowed the other direction.
I called Mom.
“I found the forty thousand.”
Silence.
“What?”
“The forty thousand you supposedly gave me for my condo.”
Mom’s voice sharpened.
“Iris.”
“You didn’t give it to me.”
“We helped you in other ways.”
“I’ve sent you almost a hundred thousand dollars since I was twenty-five.”
Nothing.
“Does Chelsea know?”
“That is none of her business.”
“You made it her business when you told her you supported me.”
“We did support you.”
“How?”
Mom began crying.
I almost apologized.
Reflex.
Then stopped.
“Please answer.”
“We gave you a stable family.”
I closed my eyes.
“That’s not a forty-thousand-dollar condo payment.”
She hung up.
Ten minutes later, Dad called.
“Stop interrogating your mother.”
“Why did you tell Chelsea you paid for my car?”
“Because we helped you get where you are.”
“How?”
“You lived in our house through college.”
“So did Chelsea.”
“Don’t bring your sister into this.”
I laughed.
“Her BMW is parked in your driveway with a bow.”
Dad’s breathing grew louder.
“You’ve always been obsessed with keeping score.”
I looked at my spreadsheet.
Until that day, I had done the opposite.
I had never totaled anything.
“Maybe I should’ve started sooner.”
Dad hung up.
At 8:06 that night, my monthly automatic transfer was scheduled to process.
$1,100.
I canceled it.
My finger hovered over the confirmation button for several seconds.
Then I pressed.
I expected guilt.
I felt relief.
Twenty minutes later, Mom texted.
Did you cancel your transfer?
I stared at the screen.
They noticed within minutes.
Not because they were wealthy parents occasionally accepting help from their daughter.
Because they were waiting for it.
I typed:
Yes.
Mom replied:
Your father budgeted around that money.
May you like
I read the sentence twice.
The family that claimed it had been carrying me had built its budget around my paycheck.
