It didn’t look like a transition.
It looked like a collapse.
I continued driving.
My daughter didn’t ask any questions.
The next morning, my mother called.
Her voice was hoarse, as if she had been crying for a long time.
She told me that Rebecca and the boys were moving into a two-bedroom apartment on the other side of town, half the size of their old one.
Then, after a pause, she added that she and my father had decided to step in and help with the rent, and groceries too, if needed.
She said it as if it were a moral victory.
I did not reply immediately.
Then she asked the question she had been keeping to herself.
« Are you happy now? »
It wasn’t curiosity, it was an accusation.
« I’m not happy, » I said. « I’m done. »
She told me not to come to them the next time I need help.
I told him I wouldn’t do it, and for the first time, I knew it was true.
The matter could have ended there if it weren’t for what happened a few days later.
I received an email from my bank late last night.
Three unsuccessful login attempts from an unrecognized device.
Then another email regarding a password reset refusal.
My chest tightened.
I immediately changed my password.
Then I changed it again.
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