Chapter 2
I thought I had misunderstood him.
Mom clearly did too.
“You did what?”
Dad sat on the edge of my bed.
Suddenly he looked older than forty-eight.
Not weaker.
Just smaller.
“I took out a home-equity loan.”
Mom gripped the back of my desk chair.
“When?”
“Last year.”
“How much?”
Dad hesitated.
That hesitation was worse than any number.
“How much, Richard?”
“Forty-five thousand.”
Mom sat down.
I stared at him.
Our entire argument had been over less than four thousand dollars.
Dad owed forty-five.
“Why?” I asked.
“It’s complicated.”
“No.”
Mom’s voice sharpened.
“It isn’t.”
She pointed at him.
“You borrowed against our home without telling me.”
“I thought I could fix it.”
“Fix what?”
Dad rubbed both hands over his face.
His wedding ring caught the light.
“I made an investment.”
Mom laughed once.
It sounded broken.
“An investment?”
“A business opportunity.”
“What business?”
Dad did not answer.
My chest tightened.
“What business?”
He looked at me.
“A trucking company.”
I frowned.
“You don’t know anything about trucking.”
“My friend Daryl does.”
That name hit me immediately.
Daryl Benson.
Dad’s old high-school friend.
He had shown up at our house the previous summer driving a new SUV and talking about “building generational wealth.”
Dad had spent weeks repeating that phrase.
Mom stood.
“You gave Daryl forty-five thousand dollars?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I bought into the company.”
“Where is your share?”
Dad swallowed.
“The company failed.”
The room went quiet.
Mom stared at him.
“You gambled our house.”
“It wasn’t gambling.”
“You took forty-five thousand dollars we didn’t have and gave it to your friend without telling your wife.”
“I was trying to build something for us.”
“For us?”
Mom pointed toward the money in his hand.
“You were about to take our son’s savings because of something you did.”
Dad looked down.
“I was desperate.”
That should have made me feel sorry for him.
Instead, I felt something colder.
“Is that why you take so much from me?”
His head lifted.
“What?”
“You’ve been making me pay more every few months.”
“That money helps the household.”
“How long have I been paying your loan?”
Dad said nothing.
My throat tightened.
I remembered every conversation.
The first time he asked me for an extra hundred dollars.
The emergency repair that never seemed to happen.
The electric bill that supposedly doubled.
The insurance premium.
The grocery shortage.
Each time I had worked another shift.
Each time Dad called it responsibility.
“Answer me.”
“Caleb…”
“How long?”
“Six months.”
Mom closed her eyes.
I stood there feeling like an idiot.
Six months.
I had been skipping meals to save money while also helping my father cover debt he had hidden from everyone.
“I want my money.”
Dad looked at the envelope.
“We need to talk about priorities.”
“No.”
“Son—”
“Don’t call me that while you’re holding money you didn’t earn.”
His face changed.
Mom stepped between us again.
“Give it to him.”
“Lisa.”
“Now.”
Dad looked at her.
Something passed between them.
Years of marriage.
Arguments I did not know about.
Promises I had never heard.
Then he placed the envelope in my hand.
I counted it immediately.
Dad flinched.
Good.
Every dollar was there.
I shoved the envelope inside my backpack.
Dad stood.
“You’re not seriously leaving now.”
I stared at him.
“You think this makes me want to stay?”
“You just learned your family is in trouble.”
“I just learned you lied to all of us.”
“Which is exactly why we need to stick together.”
I almost could not believe him.
“You mean I need to stay and help pay for it.”
“That is not what I said.”
“It’s what you mean.”
Dad’s voice rose.
“You have a sister in this house.”
My little sister Ava was fourteen.
The moment he said her name, guilt hit me.
Dad saw it.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
“Ava didn’t create your debt.”
“She could lose her home.”
“That’s on you.”
Dad stepped closer.
“You can really walk away knowing that?”
I hated him for making me answer.
I hated myself because part of me believed him.
Mom spoke first.
“Yes.”
We both turned.
She looked at me.
“You can leave.”
Dad stared at her.
“Lisa.”
“He is nineteen.”
“He’s our son.”
“Exactly.”
Her voice broke.
“He is our son, Richard. Not our emergency fund.”
The words landed hard.
Dad looked away.
Mom came toward me.
“If you want to move out, you move out.”
My eyes burned.
“What about Ava?”
“I’m her mother.”
Mom’s voice shook.
“Her care is my responsibility. Mine and your father’s.”
Dad muttered, “So he just gets to walk away.”
Mom rounded on him.
“He has been carrying your mistake for six months without even knowing it.”
Silence.
“He does not owe you more.”
Dad left my room.
The front door slammed a minute later.
Mom and I remained.
I sat on the bed.
For some reason, now that I had won, I felt terrible.
Mom seemed to know.
She sat beside me.
“Don’t let guilt make your decisions.”
“I don’t want Ava to lose the house.”
“Neither do I.”
“What are you going to do?”
Her face changed.
“I’m going to find out what else your father hasn’t told me.”
That sentence stayed with me.
We went downstairs.
Ava was sitting on the stairs.
She had heard everything.
Her face was pale.
“Are we losing the house?”
Mom immediately hugged her.
“No one knows that yet.”
Ava looked at me.
“You’re leaving?”
The fear in her voice hurt more than Dad’s anger.
I crouched beside her.
“I’m moving fifteen minutes away.”
“But why?”
I glanced at Mom.
Then back at my sister.
“Because I need to learn how to live my own life.”
“Did I do something?”
My heart cracked.
“No.”
I hugged her.
“Never.”
She buried her face against me.
“Dad said family doesn’t leave.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course he had.
I pulled back.
“Moving out isn’t leaving you.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Later, Mom opened the locked drawer in Dad’s office.
Dad had always kept the key on his ring.
He had forgotten to take the spare from the kitchen junk drawer.
Inside were bills.
Stacks of them.
Credit cards.
Loan notices.
Past-due statements.
Mom spread everything across the dining table.
Her hands started shaking.
“This is more than the house.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
We spent two hours making a list.
Credit cards.
Personal loan.
Home-equity loan.
Truck payment.
A business line of credit.
Then I found something with Mom’s name on it.
I handed it to her.
“What is this?”
She opened the envelope.
Her face drained of color.
A credit card statement.
Balance: $12,670.
Mom whispered, “I never opened this account.”
My stomach dropped.
“Dad did?”
“He couldn’t.”
But her expression said she knew he could.
Another envelope.
Another card.
Her name again.
Then one under mine.
I froze.
“What?”
Mom looked at me.
I opened it.
A credit card I had never applied for.
Balance: $6,420.
My knees went weak.
Mom grabbed the statement.
“No.”
I stared at the purchases.
Gas.
Restaurants.
Cash advances.
Business payments.
All from an account carrying my name.
The envelope under my mattress suddenly felt meaningless.
Dad had not only been taking my paycheck.
He had borrowed money as me.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Dad.
I’LL BE HOME LATER. DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID.
I looked at the statement again.
Then I typed back.
May you like
Too late.
You already did.
