Back at home, I sat at the kitchen table, the statement and envelope spread before me. I dialed the customer service number for our bank, hoping for some clarity. The automated voice guided me through the usual prompts, each one feeling like another barrier to the truth.

After several minutes, a representative answered, her voice brisk. ‘Could you confirm the account number for these transfers?’ I asked, the pen poised over the paper.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t disclose that information without authorization from both account holders,’ she replied smoothly.

Frustration built within me, but I kept my tone even. ‘Surely there’s something you can tell me about these transactions?’

There was a pause, the kind that spoke volumes. ‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ she said finally. ‘I suggest discussing this directly with the other account holder.’

The call ended, leaving me with more questions than answers. I felt cornered, a growing imbalance of knowledge and power settling over me like a shadow.

That evening, I broached the subject with my spouse over dinner. ‘I noticed some unusual transfers in our account,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘Do you know anything about them?’

They looked up, their expression unreadable. ‘Oh, those? It’s just a bit of rearranging, nothing to worry about,’ they said, cutting into their meal with deliberate calm.

‘Rearranging to where?’ I pressed, my voice betraying none of the turmoil I felt.

‘A new savings account, one with better interest,’ they replied, meeting my gaze steadily.

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