Chapter 3 - THE FIRST THING I STOPPED
I canceled the automatic transfer that morning.
Not froze Dorothia’s accounts.
Not touched Thaddius’s money.
Mine.
The standing instruction from my personal checking account ended with three clicks.
Then I called my CPA.
Her name was Nina Patel.
She had handled my business taxes for six years and had repeatedly encouraged me to understand our household finances more closely.
I had always answered:
“Thaddius handles the personal side.”
That sentence embarrassed me now.
Nina listened without interrupting.
“How much did you know about the original loan?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you and Thaddius have joint brokerage accounts?”
“Yes.”
“Who manages them?”
“He does.”
“Do you receive statements?”
“Electronically.”
“Do you read them?”
Not regularly.
There was my contribution to the problem.
Trust without attention.
Nina did not shame me.
She said:
“Start collecting records before you accuse anyone of something you can't prove.”
That became the first sensible instruction anyone had given me since the slap.
I downloaded two years of bank statements.
The $1,500 transfers were exactly as I remembered.
Every month.
First or second business day.
Dorothia Voss.
I also found something I hadn't noticed.
For the first seven months, Thaddius reimbursed me $750 from our joint checking account.
Then the reimbursements stopped.
I had forgotten they ever existed.
That meant the arrangement had originally been presented differently.
I searched old text messages.
Twenty-six months earlier:
THADDIUS: Mom's embarrassed to ask. Could we help her with $1,500/month until things settle?
ME: Of course.
Later:
ME: Should we split it?
THADDIUS: I'll cover half.
Then, seven months afterward:
THADDIUS: Cash is tight this quarter. Can you cover Mom for now? I'll even it out later.
He never did.
I had never asked.
Not because $750 would have changed my life.
Because marriage had trained me to avoid keeping score.
The first serious consequence arrived that afternoon.
I moved my business operating funds out of an account Thaddius could view.
Not because he had stolen business money.
Because his online access existed solely for convenience, and convenience no longer justified exposure.
Then I changed the password to my personal brokerage login.
The account balance stopped me cold.
It was lower than I expected.
Not catastrophically.
About $67,000 lower.
I called Nina.
“Could market losses explain this?”
“Possibly. Send me the statements.”
An hour later she called back.
“Serena, there's a withdrawal from twenty-nine months ago.”
“How much?”
“Eighty thousand dollars.”
My mouth went dry.
“Where did it go?”
“To another account. We need more detail.”
Twenty-nine months earlier.
Three months before Thaddius asked me to start paying his mother.
The timing was too close.
When Thaddius came to Camille’s apartment that evening, I met him downstairs.
“Did you take eighty thousand dollars from our brokerage account?”
He stopped.
That was answer number one.
Then:
“It was temporary.”
Answer number two.
“Where did it go?”
“Into the investment.”
“The one you borrowed $120,000 from your mother to cover?”
His face changed.
I had misunderstood something.
“No.”
He said it quietly.
“The money from Mom came afterward.”
May you like
“After what?”
“After I lost yours.”
