Her voice was firm.
“Bring your mother. Bring any financial paperwork you can find. Come to my office.”
By 8:30 that morning, Mom, Tyler, and I were sitting in Denise’s conference room.
I had brought folders, bank statements, insurance documents, anything I could locate.
Tyler sat beside me with his feet not quite touching the floor.
He looked exhausted.
He should have been thinking about cartoons or breakfast.
Instead, he had spent the night guarding his grandmother from his uncle.
I reached down and squeezed his hand.
Denise sat across from Mom.
“I’m going to ask you some very specific questions.”
Mom nodded.
“Did you knowingly give Jason permission to access or manage your bank accounts?”
“No.”
“Did he explain that any documents you signed could give him authority over your money?”
Mom’s expression changed.
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
Denise leaned back.
“All right. We’re calling the bank.”
The call lasted less than twenty minutes.
It felt like an hour.
Jason had submitted paperwork requesting access to more than one of Mom’s accounts.
Some requests were still pending.
One had already gone through.
He had successfully been added to an account.
Mom sat beside me staring at the speakerphone.
“Why would he do that?”
Her voice sounded smaller than I had ever heard it.
I didn’t know what to say.
I wanted to believe there was some explanation that could put our family back together.
Some misunderstanding.
Some good intention hidden beneath bad paperwork.
Deep down, I already knew better.
That afternoon, the answer walked through my front door carrying another folder.
Jason smiled when he saw me in the kitchen.
“Hey. Where’s Mom?”
“Upstairs.”
Then his eyes landed on Denise’s business card sitting on the table.
His smile disappeared.
I pointed toward a chair.
“Sit down.”
He stared at me.
“What happened?”
“Sit.”
For once, he didn’t argue.
He lowered himself into the chair.
I placed copies of the paperwork in front of him.
“Explain this.”
His face turned pale.
“It’s not what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“I was helping Mom.”
“Helping her by getting access to her bank accounts?”
He rubbed his jaw.
“Come on.”
“No. You come on.”
My voice was shaking now.
“Why did you need access to her money?”
He looked away.
And suddenly, the answer became obvious.
“How much?”
His eyes lifted.
“How much money did you need?”
Silence.
“Jason.”
He swallowed.
“Twenty.”
I stared at him.
“Twenty what?”
“Thousand.”
My hands went cold.
