I showed him. Every transfer. Month after month. Amounts, dates—no descriptions, because Victoria had always insisted on discretion. He stared at the screen, jaw tight.
“She told me she was using money her mother left her,” he muttered.
“That ran out a long time ago,” I said. “Everything after that came from me.”
By noon, we were at the bank. He had pulled documents from Victoria’s office—statements, notices, unopened envelopes.
I wanted to believe there had been real emergencies. That there was some justification.
There wasn’t.
The house wasn’t just behind three payments.
It was weeks away from foreclosure.
His medical bills had only been paid because I covered them.
The Lake Tahoe house had a loan against it.
And Ethan’s auto modification shop—the “rough patch” Victoria kept mentioning—was drowning in debt, unpaid taxes, and personal loans.
I felt hollow.
My father went quiet. Too quiet.
On the drive back, without looking at me, he said,
“I knew she protected Ethan too much. I chose not to see it. But I never thought she’d use you… and hide it from me.”
“You never asked,” I replied.
I regretted it immediately. But he nodded slowly, like he already knew.