Sitting in the sterile, air-conditioned office of the bank, I felt a growing unease as I waited for the manager to return with the documents I had requested. The envelope in my hand was crisp and official, bearing the bank’s logo and the date, May 15th. It felt heavier than it should, a physical representation of the doubts that had been swirling in my mind for weeks.
“Here we go,” the bank manager said as she returned, placing a stack of papers on the desk between us. Her voice was calm, almost too calm, as if she had delivered similar news countless times.
I scanned the pages quickly, my heart sinking as I noted the series of charges that made no sense. “This can’t be right,” I murmured, more to myself than to her.
She leaned forward slightly, maintaining a professional demeanor. “These are the transactions from the past six months, as you requested. If there’s anything else you need, please let me know.” Her eyes met mine for a brief moment before she looked away.
“Actually, yes,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I need to know more about these charges. They don’t match up with what we budgeted for.” I pointed to a particularly large amount that stood out like a sore thumb.
She nodded, making a note on her pad. “I’ll have someone from our financial team look into it and get back to you as soon as possible.” Her words were reassuring, but the knot in my stomach only tightened.
As I left the bank, the envelope still clutched in my hand, I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. What was happening with our finances, and why hadn’t my spouse mentioned any of this? I needed answers, and I knew the only way to get them was to confront the truth head-on.
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