The bank was quieter than usual that Tuesday morning, the hum of air conditioning filling the space as I waited for my turn. I hadn’t expected anything out of the ordinary—just a routine check of my parent’s accounts to ensure everything was in order. When the teller called my name, I stepped forward, offering a tight smile as I handed over the account number.
Within moments, she returned with a printed statement. I thanked her, taking a seat at the small table in the corner to review it. As I scanned the list of transactions, a cold knot tightened in my stomach. Among the usual monthly expenses were several large withdrawals, the largest being $10,000, dated just last week. I couldn’t recall any discussion about such expenses.
“Excuse me,” I approached the teller again, my voice calm but firm. “Could I have copies of these transactions?” I pointed to the questionable withdrawals.
She nodded, her fingers tapping away at the keyboard before she slid an envelope across the counter. “It’s all authorized,” she said, gesturing to a signature on the printout. My eyes followed her finger, and there it was—another name linked to the account, a relative I hadn’t thought of in years.
“I see,” I replied, trying to mask the unease in my voice. I left the bank, the envelope clutched tightly in my hand. Outside, the sun was bright, but all I could feel was a growing shadow of uncertainty. I knew I had to bring this to my parent’s attention, but deep down, I feared the conversation would reveal more than I was prepared to handle.
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