The first time I noticed something was off, I was at the kitchen table. It was late morning, the sun casting a warm glow across the room, highlighting the stack of unopened mail that had accumulated during the weeks my spouse was in the hospital. I picked up an envelope addressed to both of us, but the return address was unfamiliar. It was from a bank.
Inside, a statement dated February 7, 2023, detailed a substantial transfer to an account number I did not recognize. I frowned, turning the paper over in my hands. “It’s just something I needed to do,” my spouse had said calmly when I brought it up, their eyes not meeting mine.
But this was more than just a necessity. I felt the chill of the floor tiles seeping through my slippers, grounding me in that moment of realization. My fingers trembled slightly as I picked up the phone and dialed the bank’s customer service number. After several rings, a polite yet distant voice answered, “How can I assist you today?”
I explained the situation, my words careful and measured, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile understanding I was beginning to form. “I’m sorry, but I can’t disclose that information,” the representative said, her tone unwavering.
My mind raced. What did this mean? Why was I being kept in the dark? It felt like a silent storm was brewing, one that had been gathering strength while I remained blissfully unaware. I hung up the phone, the unanswered questions swirling around me like debris caught in a whirlwind.
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