Chapter 3
The bank lobby smelled like carpet cleaner and rain.
I arrived ten minutes early with my driver's license, the copied page, the old school emails, and a notebook I had bought at the drugstore on the way there. I kept checking the folder in my lap as if the blue cover might disappear if I looked away.
The woman in the blazer met me near the entrance. In daylight, she looked younger than she had at the kitchen table, though her focused expression hadn't changed.
“You came,” she said.
“I said I would.”
“Yes.”
She didn’t ask whether I had told my mother. I appreciated that.
We sat in a small office with a glass wall facing the lobby. A coffee machine hissed somewhere behind us. The woman placed the copied page beside her notebook but didn’t touch it until I nodded.
“I want you to understand the limits,” she said. “The account records may show transfers, but records alone won't explain every conversation around them.”
“I’m not asking you to explain my family.”
“That’s good. I can help you read what the documents say.”
“And what they don't say?”
“Those gaps matter too.”
The bank representative entered with a tablet and a stack of forms. She was ordinary-looking, with rainwater darkening the shoulders of her jacket. She confirmed my identity, then reviewed the beneficiary line.
“This account is still active,” she said.
My breath caught. “Active?”
“Yes.”
“Who can access it?”
She looked at the screen. “I can’t discuss all access details until we complete the request.”
The woman in the blazer leaned forward. “Can Drew request the complete transaction history and authorization records?”
“She can submit a formal request. Some records may be withheld or redacted depending on the account terms.”
“Even if I’m the beneficiary?” I asked.
“Beneficiary status does not always equal current ownership or access authority.”
The phrase made my stomach turn.
I looked at the woman in the blazer. She gave no reaction, only waited.
“What does it mean that the account is still active?”
“It means the account has not been closed,” the representative said.
“Is there money in it?”
She glanced at the screen again. “I’m not able to provide the balance until the request is processed.”
The bank's language was careful, polished, and impossible to argue with. I had thought a formal office would make the truth simple. Instead, it gave uncertainty official names.
The representative slid the forms toward me.
“Sign here to request the statements, transaction history, beneficiary records, and authorization documents.”
My pen hovered above the first line.
Mother’s voice returned to me: You will not call the bank.
I thought of the school email, the sentence I had written because I believed someone was keeping track of my future. I thought of Tyler saying he knew there was an account but not how much.
I signed.
The woman in the blazer watched the pages, not my face.
The representative collected the forms. “Processing can take several business days.”
“Will anyone else be notified?”
“Account parties may receive a notice.”
My hand went still on the notebook.
The woman in the blazer answered before I could ask anything else. “That means your mother may find out.”
I nodded.
Outside, rain had started again, fine and steady. We stood beneath the bank awning while people crossed the parking lot with their heads lowered.
“You didn't have to come with me,” I said.
“You asked me to.”
“I only asked where we could meet.”
“And I offered to come.”
“Why?”
She took a moment. “Because you were being told to stay quiet before you had the documents.”
I looked at her.
“That doesn’t mean your family is guilty of anything,” she continued. “It means you deserve to understand an account with your name on it.”
I tucked the notebook into my bag. “What if I don't like what I find?”
“Then you decide what to do with it.”
Her restraint made it easier to breathe. She wasn’t promising to fix my life. She wasn’t telling me what kind of daughter I was supposed to be.
My phone rang while we crossed the parking lot.
Mother.
I answered this time.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“At the bank.”
Silence.
Rain ticked against the roof of the car beside me.
“You did it anyway.”
“I signed a request for the records.”
“You had no right.”
“The page has my name on it.”
“You’re making this official.”
“It already was official. That’s why there are account records.”
Her breathing changed. I could hear the anger gathering, but underneath it was fear.
“Drew, listen to me. Tyler could lose his house.”
“I didn’t take it.”
“You know what repayment would do to him.”
“I know what not having money for school did to me.”
The line went quiet.
The woman in the blazer stood several steps away, looking toward the street and giving me privacy without pretending not to notice.
Mother spoke again, lower now. “You’re going to regret this.”
I closed my eyes.
“I already regret not asking sooner.”
Then I ended the call.
For a moment, I couldn't move. The rain had dampened the ends of my hair, and my fingers were numb around the phone.
The woman in the blazer approached only after I put it away.
“Are you ready to go?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m going.”
At home, the blue folder waited in my bag beside the bank receipt.
By evening, a message arrived from Mother.
The bank contacted me.
May you like
I read it once, then placed the phone facedown.
The request had become real to everyone now.
