Chapter 3
I sat in my office long after Malik went to bed.
His handwritten rent notice lay beside my keyboard.
Next to it were copies of the bank transactions.
I stared at the numbers.
Four hundred and eighty dollars in monthly payments.
Three hundred dollars from his birthday.
One hundred and twenty dollars for a school trip I'd already paid for.
And more than a thousand dollars in disputed card purchases.
My hands began shaking.
This wasn't about teaching responsibility.
Someone had been using my son's money.
And I needed to know why.
I opened our household accounts.
For years, Denise had handled many day-to-day expenses.
I trusted her.
She bought groceries.
Paid certain bills.
Organized family purchases.
I transferred money into our joint account every month.
Enough to cover household needs comfortably.
But now I wondered whether I'd been paying attention to anything.
I pulled up the statements.
The mortgage.
Utilities.
Insurance.
Groceries.
Everything was current.
There was no financial crisis.
No reason to demand rent from Malik.
Then I noticed something unusual.
Several transfers had been made from our joint account to Denise's personal account.
At first, I assumed they were ordinary household reimbursements.
Then I looked at the dates.
The transfers happened shortly after Malik's payments.
I frowned.
A pattern appeared.
Malik paid Denise eighty dollars.
Denise moved money from the joint account.
Then a larger purchase followed.
I couldn't yet determine what the transactions meant.
But I knew they needed explanation.
I called my attorney, Camille Brooks.
She'd handled my company's legal work for nearly a decade.
When I explained the situation, her voice became serious.
“Marcus, have you secured Malik's account?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She paused.
“Preserve the original records and make sure the bank has the disputed transactions documented.”
I nodded.
“Already done.”
“Have you confronted Denise about the card purchases?”
“Not yet.”
Camille took a breath.
“Don't destroy evidence or make threats. We need to establish who authorized each transaction.”
I looked at the statements.
“Can we do that?”
“Yes, with the proper records and investigation.”
I exhaled.
Then she asked something unexpected.
“Marcus, how is Malik doing emotionally?”
I closed my eyes.
“Not well.”
I told her about the suitcase.
The notice.
The fear that I'd agree to send him away.
Camille became quiet.
Then she said gently, “You should consider speaking with a family-law attorney about arrangements that protect him while this is addressed.”
I nodded.
“I will.”
After the call, I walked upstairs.
Malik's bedroom door was open.
He was sitting on his bed.
His suitcase remained on the floor.
Half packed.
I stopped in the doorway.
“Buddy?”
He looked up.
“Dad.”
I stepped inside.
“Can we talk?”
He nodded.
I sat beside him.
For a moment, we were silent.
Then I asked, “How long have you been afraid Denise would make you leave?”
His expression changed.
He stared at his hands.
“Since summer.”
My chest tightened.
“Summer?”
He nodded.
“She started saying I was old enough to take care of myself.”
I swallowed.
“What did that mean?”
“She said I should pay for my own food.”
I felt sick.
I remembered Denise telling me Malik had become picky about meals.
He stopped joining us for dinner several nights a week.
I assumed he preferred eating in his room.
Now I wondered whether he'd been avoiding the table.
“Did she refuse to feed you?”
He hesitated.
“Not exactly.”
I waited.
“She said if I wanted special food, I had to buy it.”
My chest tightened.
“What special food?”
Malik looked embarrassed.
“Cereal.”
I stared at him.
“Cereal?”
He nodded.
“And sandwich stuff.”
I closed my eyes.
Basic groceries.
My son had been made to feel guilty about eating cereal.
I took a breath.
“Did you buy your own food?”
He nodded.
“Sometimes.”
My heart broke.
I remembered seeing shopping bags from the convenience store.
I'd thought Malik was buying snacks.
I didn't realize he believed he had to pay for everyday food.
I looked at him.
“Buddy, you don't have to buy your place in this family.”
His eyes filled.
“Okay.”
I reached for his hand.
“Did Denise ever say I wanted you to move out?”
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“Last week.”
I swallowed.
“What did she say?”
He looked toward the suitcase.
“She said you were tired of me acting like a little kid.”
I felt tears rise.
“Malik…”
“She said once I turned eighteen, you'd probably want me gone anyway.”
I couldn't breathe.
My son was sixteen.
He still had two years of high school left.
He should've been thinking about classes.
Friends.
Sports.
College.
Instead, he was counting down to the day he might lose his home.
I pulled him into my arms.
He began crying.
“Dad, I don't want to leave.”
I held him tightly.
“You aren't leaving.”
His shoulders shook.
“I thought maybe you didn't want me anymore.”
My throat tightened.
“Never.”
I kissed his head.
“You are my son. You belong here.”
He clung to me.
For a long time, we stayed that way.
Then he whispered, “Can I unpack?”
The question nearly destroyed me.
I pulled back.
“Of course.”
He looked up.
“Really?”
I smiled through tears.
“Let's do it together.”
We opened the suitcase.
One by one, we returned his clothes to the dresser.
His favorite basketball jersey.
His school hoodie.
His jeans.
His sneakers.
Each item went back where it belonged.
When the suitcase was empty, Malik stared at it.
Then slowly smiled.
For the first time that evening, he looked relieved.
I closed the suitcase and placed it in the closet.
Then I turned toward him.
“Tomorrow, we're going to make a plan.”
He nodded.
“A plan for what?”
“For making sure you feel safe.”
His eyes filled again.
He hugged me.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I held him.
And I realized how much I had missed.
The following morning, I called my sister Renee.
She was forty-six and lived about twenty minutes away.
She'd helped me raise Malik after Danielle died.
When I explained what happened, she became quiet.
Then she said something that made my stomach tighten.
“Marcus, Malik called me last month.”
I froze.
“What?”
Renee sighed.
“He asked whether he could stay with me if things got bad.”
My chest tightened.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I tried.”
I closed my eyes.
She continued.
“I called your house. Denise answered.”
My stomach dropped.
“She said you knew Malik was being dramatic.”
I felt cold.
Renee's voice broke.
“I didn't believe her.”
I swallowed.
“Then why didn't you call me directly?”
“I did.”
I remembered a missed call.
A message Denise told me was about borrowing money.
I never returned it.
Renee continued.
“Marcus, I've been worried.”
My eyes filled.
“I know.”
Then she whispered, “There's something else.”
I sat upright.
“What?”
“Malik told me Denise said he wasn't allowed to use the family laundry room unless he paid for detergent.”
I stared at the wall.
My hands began shaking.
May you like
Then Renee said something that made everything worse.
“He told me Tasha laughed when Denise called him a tenant.”
