Chapter 10
We pulled into the driveway at 10:40 and the house looked smaller than I remembered. My dad's old F-150 wasn't there. He'd be at the lumber yard until three, same as every Tuesday since I was in high school. Mark killed the engine and none of us moved right away.
Jessica sat in the back seat with her hands locked around her purse. She hadn't been inside that house in eight months.
"You sure about the key?" Mark asked.
I nodded. "Still under the fake rock by the hostas. Mom put it there when I was twelve and Dad never moved it."
The air inside smelled like lemon cleaner and coffee that had sat too long. The living room was exactly how Dad kept it since Mom died — couch pillows angled, her crocheted blanket folded over the arm, his work boots lined up by the door. It felt preserved, not lived in.
Jessica lingered by the hallway. "I don't like this," she said. Her voice was low. "It feels like we're breaking in."
"We're not," I said, though my own heart was pounding. "It's still my house too. And Dad said we could get the rest of my things whenever."
Mark stayed by the front window, keeping watch without making it obvious. "Take what you need," he said. "I'll be right here."
Mom's old office was really just the second bedroom. Dad used it for storage now, but he'd left her desk. I hadn't touched it since the funeral. The oak surface was covered with unopened mail and a chipped mug full of pens.
I pulled open the bottom drawer. It stuck, then gave. Inside was a faded floral hat box with a ribbon around it. I recognized it immediately. Mom kept coupons and church recipes in it when we were kids.
"That's it," Jessica whispered behind me. "She used to hide Christmas money in there."
I lifted the lid. Inside wasn't money. It was a small ledger, the kind with marbled black and white covers, and a stack of receipts bound with two rubber bands, and a few folded bank slips. On top of the ledger, in Mom's neat handwriting, was a sticky note that said For Lauren + Jessica — fair doesn't always mean equal.
My hands started to shake before I even opened it.
I sat on the floor and Jessica knelt beside me. Mark came to the doorway. I opened the ledger. Mom had logged every transfer Dad made from their joint savings between 2019 and 2023. Dates, amounts, memo lines in her handwriting. Ray to Jessica — $2,500 — car note. Ray to Jessica — $1,800 — rent Dec. Ray to Jessica — $3,200 — credit consolidation. Page after page.
At the bottom of the last page she had totaled it. $18,400. Underneath she had written, I told him this would hurt you both. He said she'd pay it back when she could.
Jessica made a small sound and covered her mouth. "I didn't know she knew," she said. "He told me Mom agreed. He told me it was from his bonus money, not from their savings."
"He told me the same thing about her hospital fund," I said. My throat went tight. "He told me there was nothing left to split after she passed. That everything had gone to medical bills."
Mark crouched down next to us but didn't touch the book. "Can I see the dates?" he asked quietly.
I handed it to him. He ran his finger down the column. "November 2021," he said. "That's two weeks after your mom's surgery. Four thousand dollars. And again in March 2022."
Jessica picked up one of the receipts. It was a cashier's check copy, dated 2020, payee Jessica Hart, memo late fees. Her hand was trembling. "He made me feel special," she said. "Every time I was behind, he'd show up. He'd say, 'Your sister's fine, she has Mark, she has her job. You need me more.' I thought I was the favorite."
She wasn't crying. She was staring at the numbers like they were rearranging her entire childhood.
"You weren't the favorite," I said softly. The words felt terrible to say and true at the same time. "You were the one he could use. If you'd been the favorite, he would have taught you how to not need him."
Mom's sticky note was still on top. Fair doesn't always mean equal. I'd always thought she meant Jessica needed more help. Now I understood she meant Dad had been calling it fair while he quietly drained what was supposed to be equal.
Jessica pressed her palm flat on the ledger. "She knew," she said again. "She kept track so we would know. So we wouldn't blame each other."
We didn't take the box. Mark took photos of every page with his phone, slow and steady, making sure the light caught the numbers. I put each receipt back exactly how Mom had stacked them, rubber bands and all. Jessica folded the bank slips back the way they were.
Before we closed the drawer, Jessica took the sticky note and slipped it into her pocket.
Outside, the driveway was still empty. We locked the door behind us and put the rock back over the key. In the car, Jessica held that little yellow square in her lap and finally started to cry, not loud, just breathing hard while she looked out at the house where we'd both grown up.
May you like
Mark started the engine and didn't say anything until we were back on the county road. "We have proof," he said. "And we didn't move anything he can say we stole."
I looked back at Jessica in the mirror. She nodded, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. The house got smaller behind us, but the weight in my chest had shifted. It wasn't just anger at Dad anymore. It was understanding what Mom had been trying to leave us.
