My Husband Gave His Mom His Whole Paycheck for an Apartment—Then I Slid a Black Folder Across the Table
PART 3
Mark looked at me.
“I didn’t do that.”
“I know.”
His eyes widened.
“You know?”
“I know you didn’t personally fill out the application.”
He looked relieved for half a second.
Then I continued.
“But I know whose computer was used.”
His relief disappeared.
Barbara suddenly whispered, “Sarah, please.”
I turned toward her.
“Don’t.”
She stopped.
“You’ve spent years telling me I was nothing but an outsider in this family,” I said. “Tonight, I want you to understand something.”
I pointed toward Ethan.
“You may have convinced your son that I wasn’t family.”
Then I pointed toward the house around us.
“But you never had the right to take what belonged to my child.”
Mark looked confused.
“What does Ethan have to do with this?”
I stared at him.
“Everything.”
His face tightened.
Mr. Sterling opened the envelope.
“Sarah asked our office to investigate the financial activity surrounding the apartment transaction. We found several irregularities.”
Mark swallowed.
“What irregularities?”
Mr. Sterling removed a document.
“The apartment Barbara claims she needed because she couldn’t afford her current living situation was purchased six years ago.”
Mark looked at his mother.
“That can’t be right.”
“It is,” Mr. Sterling said.
“Six years ago,” I added, “you and I had only been married for two years.”
Mark slowly shook his head.
“No. Mom was renting.”
Barbara looked away.
“Mom?”
She finally whispered, “I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Worry about what?”
She didn’t answer.
Mark turned toward me.
“Sarah, this doesn’t prove anything.”
I almost laughed.
“Mark, the deed proves everything.”
Mr. Sterling handed him a copy.
Mark scanned it.
His eyebrows pulled together.
Then his eyes widened.
The property was indeed registered to Barbara.
But the purchase price was listed directly on the document.
Mark’s voice dropped.
“Where did you get seventy-eight thousand dollars?”
Barbara remained silent.
“Mom!”
She flinched.
I watched him struggle to process it.
For years, Mark had defended his mother with the same sentence.
“She doesn’t have money.”
He had used that sentence whenever she wanted something.
A new refrigerator.
Dental work.
Medication.
A vacation.
Rent.
Groceries.
A car repair.
He had always insisted that Barbara was struggling.
Yet there she stood, the owner of an apartment worth far more than the house Mark and I had purchased together.
Mr. Sterling reached into the envelope again.
“There is more.”
He handed Mark another page.
“This is a transfer record from six years ago.”
Mark stared at it.
Then his face changed.
“That’s my account.”
I folded my arms.
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“Why was money transferred from my account?”
I answered quietly.
“Because your mother took it.”
Barbara snapped.
“I did not steal anything!”
“No,” I said. “You convinced your son to give it to you.”
Mark looked between us.
“How much?”
Mr. Sterling answered.
“Thirty-four thousand dollars.”
Mark staggered backward.
“Thirty-four…”
His voice disappeared.
