The call connected quickly, and the bank’s representative was courteous as they verified my identity. “I’m calling about a transaction from two years ago,” I explained, providing the details as best as I could. The representative placed me on hold, leaving me with the soft strains of instrumental music as my only company. Minutes stretched into eternity before they returned, their voice apologetic. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose any information about that transaction without the account holder’s direct consent,” they said. Frustration bubbled beneath my calm facade. “But it’s a joint account,” I countered, but the response was firm, the policy unwavering.
After hanging up, I sat in silence, the weight of my discoveries pressing heavily on my shoulders. My spouse entered the room, their eyes meeting mine. “Is everything okay?” they asked, their voice an echo of concern. My reply was clipped, “I don’t know yet.” I watched their expression shift, a fleeting glimpse of something I couldn’t quite place. It was then that I realized this was more than just mismanagement or oversight.
