“His name is on the authorization file,” Janice said, her tone remaining polite but firm. “Without George’s signature, my hands are tied.”
“Is there a second name listed besides my father?” I asked.
Janice closed her desk drawer and leaned forward slightly.
“I really cannot say anything else, Clara,” she said.
I took the black ledger off the counter and walked out into the afternoon air. My father had spent thirty years managing other people’s money, but he had never kept his own family in the dark like this.
The brick house where my parents lived always felt too large, even when we all lived there. I parked in the driveway and walked up the stone steps.
Inside, the kitchen was clean and bright. My mother was standing by the white marble counter, a wooden bowl of green apples sitting beside her. She was using a small silver knife to peel one, her fingers moving with steady, practiced precision.
“You should have called before coming over,” Eleanor said, her voice formal and measured. “Your father is still at the office.”
“I did not come to see Dad,” I said, setting my purse on the kitchen island. “I wanted to ask you about Rosie’s new bank account.”
My mother’s shoulders stiffened. She set the small paring knife down on the cutting board and turned to face me.
“Rosie does not need you managing her finances, Clara,” she said.
“She has fifty thousand dollars in an account at Oak Creek Bank,” I said. “Where did that money come from?”
“It is for her security,” Eleanor said, her voice rising slightly before she caught herself. “Your father and I are making arrangements for her future.”
“Ben does not have that kind of money,” I said. “And Rosie certainly does not.”
“We are ensuring she is taken care of,” Eleanor said, crossing her arms. “That is what parents do.”
“Is Ben’s name on that account?” I asked.
Eleanor turned back to the cutting board, picking up the knife again. She sliced an apple with quick, tight movements.
“Some things are handled better when we do not ask too many questions,” she said.
“That is not an answer, Mom,” I said.
“It is the only answer you are getting,” Eleanor said. “We have spent thirty-three years worrying about your sister’s future, and now we are resolving it.”
“Resolving it how?” I asked.
“Go home, Clara,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You have your own life to live now.”
I did not go home. I drove down to Main Street and parked across from the bank, turning off the headlights.
The street was empty, the shops closed for the evening. The air inside the car grew cold quickly, but I did not turn the heater back on.
I pulled the black ledger from my purse and stared at the gold lettering on the cover. My parents had spent my entire life telling me that Rosie would always be my responsibility, that I had to be the strong one.
Now, suddenly, they were moving large sums of money behind my back, rushing a wedding, and locking me out of the details.
I looked out the side window. The green neon sign of the Oak Creek Bank flickered against the wet pavement of the dark street.
