Chapter 2 - The Address on the Statements
The attorney’s name was Rachel Kim.
Elise knew her through a colleague and arranged a consultation for the next afternoon. Our mother came to stay with Hailey, and I sat in Rachel’s office wearing a cardigan with dried formula on the sleeve.
I noticed the stain halfway through explaining the phone call.
For some reason, that embarrassed me more than crying.
Rachel passed me a box of tissues.
“You don’t have to decide everything today,” she said. “We can start by understanding your finances and making sure you have support.”
I told her about the recurring payments.
She asked whether I had access to the records legitimately.
“It’s our joint account.”
“Good. Keep copies. Don’t alter anything, and don’t sign documents you haven’t reviewed.”
I almost said that I would never sign something without reading it.
Then I remembered how many times Liam had handed me a phone while I held a crying baby.
Just the insurance renewal.
Just the household budget.
Just acknowledging the updated account details.
I felt sick.
Rachel saw my expression.
“Tell me what you’re remembering.”
We spent another hour making a list.
My paycheck before leave.
My savings.
Our joint household account.
The small inheritance my grandmother left me, most of which remained in an account in my name.
The money I had transferred into joint savings before Hailey’s birth because Liam said we needed a larger emergency cushion.
Thirty-two thousand dollars.
I had intended it to let us breathe.
I had thought we would use some of it so he could take unpaid time home with us.
Instead, he had said we couldn’t afford it.
Rachel asked me to bring more statements and any documents I remembered signing.
On the drive home, Elise offered to talk about something else.
I shook my head.
“I keep thinking I should have noticed.”
“You noticed now.”
“After I had his baby.”
“You had your baby,” she said gently. “Don’t let him take that from you.”
At home, I fed Hailey while my mother organized the kitchen.
I had told her only that Liam and I were having serious problems.
She didn’t press.
Before leaving, she put her hand on my shoulder.
“I can come back tomorrow.”
I nodded, and she kissed my hair.
That evening, Liam announced he would be late again.
I looked at the clock.
For the first time, his absence gave me something besides loneliness.
Time.
I opened the shared folder where we kept household paperwork.
Most of it was ordinary.
Tax forms.
Utility bills.
Warranty information for a refrigerator.
Then I found a scanned application with my name on the second page.
A personal loan.
Forty-six thousand dollars.
Liam’s name appeared as the primary applicant.
Mine appeared beneath it.
The signature did not look like mine.
It was an application, not proof that money had been issued, but I read it until my eyes blurred.
The stated purpose was home improvement.
Our upstairs bathroom still had an unfinished patch of wall because Liam said hiring someone to repair it would be irresponsible.
I sent the document to Rachel.
Her reply was brief.
Do not confront him about this yet. We need to clarify what was submitted and its status.
Then I returned to the bank statements.
Birch Lane Property Services was connected to an address across town. The information appeared on a receipt Liam had saved with a reimbursement form.
A townhouse.
Three bedrooms.
I knew the neighborhood.
Good schools. Wide sidewalks. A little bakery on the corner where we had once stopped after an ultrasound appointment.
There was also a furniture invoice.
A dining table.
A sofa.
A nursery dresser.
I stopped breathing.
Hailey’s dresser had come from an online resale group.
I had sanded it in our garage while seven months pregnant.
Liam said buying new furniture was wasteful.
The invoice included a note:
Delivery accepted by Vivian Cole.
I searched the name.
Not through his accounts.
Not by guessing passwords.
Her public professional profile appeared immediately.
Vivian owned a small interior-design studio. Her photographs showed finished rooms, fabric samples, and occasional glimpses of her personal life.
Then I found a picture from the previous month.
A kitchen I had never seen.
Two wineglasses.
Liam’s hand resting on the counter.
I recognized the scar across his thumb.
The caption read:
Building something worth coming home to.
When Liam returned, he found me warming another bottle.
He kissed my cheek.
“Everything okay?”
I looked at the man who had told me we couldn’t afford a crib until my mother offered to buy one.
“Just tired.”
He smiled.
“Sunday will be nice. We deserve a celebration.”
Behind him, my laptop waited on the kitchen table.
Two homes.
May you like
One husband.
And my money passing quietly between them.
