Chapter 5 - My Mother Refused to Leave
I stared at the photograph.
Jessica glanced at the screen and immediately closed her eyes.
“You know him.”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Aaron Blake.”
I waited.
“He’s an attorney.”
That was not the answer I expected.
“What kind?”
“Family law.”
The room went quiet.
Jessica sat on the edge of the bed.
“I met him last week.”
“About divorcing me?”
“About understanding my options.”
The honesty hurt, but I had asked for truth.
“Did you hire him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he told me the first thing I should do was document what was happening and talk to you if I felt safe enough.”
I stared again at the photograph.
“How did my mother get this?”
Jessica looked frightened.
“I don’t know.”
I enlarged the image.
It had clearly been taken from across the street.
Not casually.
Someone had watched my wife.
I called Carmen.
She answered immediately.
“So you finally want to talk like an adult?”
“Who took the photo?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“One of my friends happened to see her.”
“Which friend?”
Silence.
“Mom.”
“Maybe you should worry less about me and more about why your wife was secretly meeting a divorce lawyer.”
“You followed Jessica.”
“I protected my son.”
“You stalked my wife.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
That word again.
The word she used whenever somebody else’s pain became inconvenient.
“Did you go to the leasing office?”
“I live there.”
“Not anymore.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m on the lease.”
“So am I.”
I froze.
“What?”
Carmen laughed softly.
“You really don’t read your own paperwork, do you?”
I ended the call and opened our digital lease.
There it was.
Nine months earlier, during a lease renewal, Carmen had been added as an “approved adult occupant.”
Not a tenant.
Not financially responsible.
But enough to complicate removal.
I remembered signing the renewal electronically between meetings.
Mom had told me management required her information because she received mail there.
I never read the attachment.
My carelessness had built another trap.
The leasing manager clarified the situation later that morning.
Carmen was not a leaseholder, but because she had established residency, they advised us not to remove her belongings or physically prevent access without following the proper process.
I asked whether we could transfer apartments.
“Yes,” he said. “But that takes time.”
“How much?”
“Normally several weeks.”
I looked at Jessica.
Several weeks might as well have been several years.
We decided to stay at a hotel temporarily.
When I told Carmen she could return only to collect necessary belongings while we resolved the situation, she became furious.
“You’re abandoning your home because of her?”
“I’m protecting my family.”
“I am your family.”
“So are they.”
“You never spoke to me like this before you married her.”
“No. I didn’t.”
I took a breath.
“That was part of the problem.”
By noon, relatives started calling.
My cousin said Mom had told everyone Jessica shoved her into a cabinet.
My aunt said Jessica had been controlling me for years.
An old family friend sent a three-paragraph message explaining how “a mother only gets one son.”
Not one person asked about Olivia.
Not one.
That told me everything.
At the hotel that evening, Olivia jumped between the two beds.
Jessica actually laughed.
It was the first time I had heard her laugh since I came home.
Then my phone buzzed.
A banking alert.
A charge for $2,870.
Luxury department store.
Card ending in 4418.
The card I had taken from Carmen’s dresser.
Impossible.
It was sitting in my wallet.
I opened the account.
Another charge.
$1,920.
Then $743.
Then $5,100.
All within forty minutes.
I immediately froze the card.
“Jess.”
She came over.
“What?”
I showed her.
She frowned.
“Did Carmen have it saved on her phone?”
Probably.
I pulled six months of statements.
Then twelve.
At first the charges looked normal.
Groceries.
Pharmacy.
Household supplies.
Then I started noticing patterns.
$1,400 at a boutique.
$2,100 at a jewelry store.
Restaurants on nights when I was traveling.
Spa treatments.
Furniture.
Event catering.
One recurring payment I didn’t recognize.
$850 every month.
I clicked it.
A storage facility in North Phoenix.
Jessica stared at me.
“Why would your mother need a storage unit?”
“I don’t know.”
We totaled the questionable charges.
My mouth went dry.
More than forty thousand dollars.
And that didn’t include cash withdrawals.
I called the credit-card company.
While I waited on hold, Jessica opened another statement.
“Zayden.”
Her voice sounded strange.
“What?”
“Look.”
There were recurring transfers from our household checking account.
$500.
$900.
$1,200.
Always small enough that I hadn’t noticed among rent, utilities, investments, and automatic payments.
Destination:
CF SERVICES LLC.
I had never heard of it.
I searched the company name.
Registered agent:
Carmen Ferris.
My mother had created a business.
And for nearly a year, money from my household had been flowing into it.
The total was $47,380.
I felt something inside me go cold.
Then Jessica whispered, “I know what the storage unit is.”
I turned.
“How?”
“Carmen took me there once.”
“What’s inside?”
May you like
Jessica looked at the screen.
“Things she told everyone you bought for her.”
