Chapter 2 - Dad’s First Move
Columbus felt strangely quiet.
Not because the city itself was quiet.
Because my phone finally was.
I moved into a modest apartment fifteen minutes from the office. The company covered the moving expenses and gave me two paid days to settle in.
For the first time since college, I bought groceries without mentally calculating whether my mother would need money before payday.
I bought a new coffee maker.
Ridiculous, maybe.
But it was mine.
On Tuesday morning, I walked into my new office as project lead.
My new supervisor, Natalie Brooks, shook my hand.
“We’ve been trying to get you here for months.”
That sentence bothered me.
Not because of her.
Because it reminded me that I could have had this months earlier.
I spent the morning meeting my team.
At lunch, Natalie sat across from me in the cafeteria.
“You look tired.”
“Moving.”
She smiled.
“Family okay with it?”
I almost laughed.
“They’re adjusting.”
My phone buzzed.
Jason.
Then Mom.
Then an unknown number.
I ignored all three.
At 2:17 p.m., Human Resources called me upstairs.
A woman named Denise closed the door behind me.
“Eric, I need to ask you something.”
My stomach tightened.
“Okay.”
“Did you authorize anyone to call the company regarding your mental health?”
I stared at her.
“What?”
She turned her monitor slightly.
“This morning someone claiming to be your father contacted corporate HR. He said you had recently become unstable, abandoned financial obligations, and might be experiencing some kind of breakdown.”
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
Denise continued.
“He suggested the transfer might have been accepted while you weren’t thinking clearly.”
Heat climbed my neck.
“What exactly did he say?”
“He asked whether the company could reverse the transfer and send you home.”
I actually laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was so perfectly Dad.
Even after I left, he still believed my employer should deliver me back.
Denise watched me carefully.
“I want to reassure you that we don’t make employment decisions based on random calls from family members.”
“Thank you.”
“However, he mentioned company information he probably shouldn’t have known.”
That stopped me.
“What information?”
“My salary.”
My stomach dropped.
“And your previous supervisor’s name.”
I knew immediately.
Mom.
She had access to years of paperwork.
Tax documents.
Pay stubs.
Benefits letters.
Everything.
For years, I had allowed my personal records to remain in a filing cabinet at their house because Mom insisted she was “better at paperwork.”
Now Dad was using them.
“Is this going to affect my job?”
“No.”
Denise leaned forward.
“But I recommend securing your accounts. Change emergency contacts. Change passwords. Update everything.”
I thanked her.
Then I went downstairs, locked myself in an empty conference room, and called my mother.
She answered before the first ring finished.
“Eric!”
“Did Dad call my company?”
Silence.
That told me everything.
“Mom.”
“He’s upset.”
“You gave him my employment information?”
“I didn’t give him anything. Your papers are here.”
“Why did he call?”
“He thinks you’re making a terrible decision.”
“So he told HR I’m mentally unstable?”
“He shouldn’t have said it like that.”
“Like what?”
No answer.
I stood and walked to the window.
Traffic moved twenty floors below.
“Mom, listen carefully. Dad is not to contact my employer again.”
“Eric—”
“No.”
My own voice surprised me.
Calm.
Firm.
“No more calls. No more access to my accounts. No more using my personal information.”
She began crying.
It used to destroy me when Mom cried.
Now I felt something different.
Sadness.
But not surrender.
“We’re struggling,” she whispered.
“It’s been four days.”
“The electric company wants a deposit.”
“Then pay it.”
“With what?”
There it was.
“With your money, Mom.”
“You know your father’s pension barely—”
“Dad has a pension. You work part-time. Jason is able-bodied.”
“Jason has an interview Thursday.”
“Great.”
“He needs transportation.”
“There are buses.”
She sounded offended.
“You expect your brother to take a bus?”
I closed my eyes.
That single question explained our entire family.
“Yes.”
She went silent.
Then Dad’s voice appeared in the background.
“Give me the phone.”
Mom whispered something.
The line shuffled.
Dad came on.
“You embarrassing us enough yet?”
“I’m not discussing this with you.”
“You think you’re some big shot now?”
“No.”
“You abandoned your obligations.”
“What obligation?”
“Your family.”
“Paying everyone’s bills isn’t an obligation.”
His voice sharpened.
“You lived under my roof eighteen years.”
“And you chose to have a child.”
“You ungrateful little—”
I ended the call.
My hands were shaking.
But I didn’t call back.
That evening, I changed every password I could think of.
Bank.
Email.
Retirement account.
Health insurance.
Taxes.
Cloud storage.
I removed Mom as emergency contact and listed Natalie temporarily until I could figure out something better.
Then I froze when I opened my credit report.
There was an account I didn’t recognize.
A credit card.
Opened seven months earlier.
Balance: $8,430.
My pulse started hammering.
I clicked deeper.
The mailing address was my parents’ house.
My parents had never mentioned it.
I immediately called the issuer.
After twenty minutes of verification, the representative confirmed the card had been opened online.
Purchases included hardware stores, utilities, groceries, restaurants—and several payments to a motorcycle dealer.
Jason’s motorcycle.
I stared at the wall.
I had already given Jason six thousand dollars toward that bike.
Apparently, that hadn’t been enough.
“Sir?” the representative asked. “Are you saying you did not open this account?”
“No.”
“Then we need to begin a fraud investigation.”
My mouth went dry.
Fraud.
That word made everything suddenly real.
This wasn’t Dad borrowing money.
This wasn’t Mom moving funds around.
Someone had used my identity.
I drove home late.
At 9:40, Jason called.
For the first time, I answered.
“Did you open a credit card in my name?”
Silence.
Then:
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Eight thousand four hundred thirty dollars.”
Another pause.
“You should probably ask Mom.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Jason.”
He exhaled.
“Dad said it wasn’t a big deal because you always paid everything anyway.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I gripped the kitchen counter.
“Dad opened it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You just did.”
“No, man, don’t drag me into this.”
“You used it for the motorcycle.”
“I thought Dad handled that.”
“With a credit card in my name.”
Jason’s voice changed.
For the first time, he sounded nervous.
“Eric, listen. Don’t do anything stupid.”
I almost laughed.
“What would be stupid?”
“Calling cops or whatever.”
And there it was.
Confirmation.
I ended the call.
Ten minutes later, I filed an identity-theft report.
By midnight, I had frozen my credit.
At 12:18 a.m., Mom texted.
Please don’t destroy this family over money.
I stared at that sentence for a long time.
Then I typed:
I didn’t destroy anything.
I just stopped paying to hide what was already broken.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
May you like
Across the state, my father believed I was still bluffing.
He had no idea a fraud investigation had already begun.
