Chapter 3 - THE HOURS SHE PUT HER NAME ON
I did not sleep.
I compared Mom’s reimbursement logs against my calendar.
January 11: medication management, two hours.
I had filled Dad’s pill organizer that afternoon.
January 19: transportation to neurology.
I drove him.
February 2: bathing assistance and meal preparation.
Dad had spent that weekend at my house while Mom traveled to Indianapolis with Chelsea.
Again and again, work I had performed appeared under Margaret Bennett.
Some entries claimed eight or ten hours of care on days Mom had posted photographs from restaurants, shopping trips, and Mason’s basketball tournaments.
The policy had paid her more than $68,000.
I called Colleen at seven in the morning.
“Did Dad know?”
“I think he suspected.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“You know your father. He hates money fights.”
That was true.
Dad would argue about baseball for an hour and leave the room if someone mentioned inheritance, bills, or fairness.
The first notebook explained more.
March 14 — Asked Margaret why Lucy not listed. Says policy only pays spouse.
March 17 — Called insurance. Not true.
April 2 — Margaret angry I called.
April 9 — Lucy came 4 hours. Margaret gone.
Dad had been documenting the discrepancy for months.
Another line appeared three pages later.
Margaret says Lucy has enough. Chelsea needs help.
I knew Chelsea was struggling financially.
Her divorce had dragged on for almost two years. She wanted to keep the four-bedroom house in Dublin so Mason would not change schools.
Mom had been helping her with mortgage payments.
Apparently Dad’s care money was part of that help.
At eight thirty, Mom called again.
I answered.
“You finally decided to act like a daughter?”
“No. I decided to ask why Dad’s insurance paid you sixty-eight thousand dollars for care I provided.”
There was silence.
Then she laughed.
“That money belongs to this household.”
“The logs use my hours.”
“You were helping your father.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly. Families help each other.”
“Then why did you get paid?”
Her voice sharpened.
“You have no idea what it costs me to live with a sick man.”
Behind her, I heard something hit the floor.
Dad said my name.
I stood.
“What happened?”
“He knocked over his pills because he’s being stubborn.”
“Put him on.”
“No.”
“Mom.”
“I said no.”
The call ended.
Ten minutes later, Chelsea texted.
May you like
Stop attacking Mom. Dad signed those forms.
According to the notebook on my table, that was another lie.
