Back home, I spread the bank statements across the kitchen table, each one a piece of a puzzle I didn’t know how to solve yet. The dates lined up with my brother’s recent visits, which now seemed less like mere family check-ins and more like calculated maneuvers. I dialed his number, my thumb hesitating over the call button. Confrontation wasn’t my strength, but this was about our mother’s well-being. The phone rang twice before he picked up. “Hey,” he said, his voice smooth, as if we were just catching up over coffee. I cut straight to the point. “The bank statement shows a zero balance,” I stated flatly. There was a pause, the kind that stretches too long and says too much.
“I can explain,” he finally replied, but the words felt rehearsed, like an actor reciting lines. My gut twisted, a silent alarm signaling something was off. “I’m sure you can,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Let’s meet. We need to go through these papers together.” My heart pounded in my chest, a metronome counting down to an inevitable confrontation.
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