Chapter 7
“I think you could help our parents.”
“I can help them.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
Then I finished.
“But I won't help you hide this.”
The relief vanished.
“Fay, don't be dramatic.”
I sat back.
“Do you remember Thanksgiving three years ago?”
She frowned.
“What?”
“Dad asked if my truck needed repairs.
You told everyone
I couldn't afford to replace the tires.”
Ranata glanced toward Mom.
“I was joking.”
“No.
You said you'd offered to help
but I was too proud to accept.”
I remembered the laughter.
Dad's embarrassed smile.
The way Mom quietly slipped
a grocery gift card into my coat.
I had found it later
and returned it with a thank-you note.
Now I wondered
how many thousands of dollars
had already passed through Ranata's hands
that same month.
“You made them afraid for me,” I said.
“And you made me look ungrateful
for help I never received.”
Ranata's lips tightened.
“You never cared what anyone thought.”
“That's different from giving you permission
to lie about me.”
She looked toward our father.
“Tell her.”
Dad didn't move.
“Tell her what?” he asked.
“That families don't destroy each other
over money.”
He stared at her.
Then looked down
at the stack of transfer records.
“Ranata,” he said,
“you made me believe
my daughter was too ashamed
to ask me for help.”
His voice broke.
“You made me believe
she was suffering alone.”
Mom reached for his hand.
He barely seemed to notice.
“I spent years wondering
why she wouldn't trust me.”
I felt my throat tighten.
Because I had spent those same years
wondering why he wouldn't trust me
to manage my own life.
He looked at the forged invoice.
“And all that time,
you were taking our savings.”
Ranata sank into her chair.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then Dad asked,
“Where is the rest of it?”
She stared at him.
“The money.”
“I don't have it.”
“How much do you have?”
“I don't know.”
Desmond looked away.
He knew.
I could see it.
Finally, he said,
“The business accounts are nearly empty.”
Ranata snapped,
“You don't know everything.”
“No,” he replied.
“I clearly don't.”
I began gathering the papers.
Not taking them.
Just arranging them
so we could see the sequence.
The earliest transfer was small.
Eight thousand dollars.
Fourteen years ago.
The explanation beside it read:
Emergency farm equipment repair.
I remembered that year.
I had been twenty-three.