Then came our children. First our daughter, then our son two years later.
A modest house in the suburbs. One road trip vacation a year. Backseat questions of “Are we there yet?”
It was so ordinary that I didn’t notice when the truth began slipping away.
After thirty-five years of marriage, I discovered money missing from our shared account.
Our son had recently sent us part of the money we’d loaned him years earlier. I logged in to move it into savings, the way I always did. The balance stopped me cold.
The deposit was there—but the total was thousands lower than it should have been.
I checked again. Then again.
Several transfers had been made over the past months.
That night, I turned my laptop toward Troy as he watched the evening news.
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