Chapter 2 - THE MONEY WE SAVED FOR OUR CHILDREN
“Dad,” I whispered, “I think Ethan took our savings.”
My father moved closer.
“How much?”
I turned the screen toward him.
He stared.
Owen immediately pulled out a chair.
“Lauren, sit down. Let's look at the transaction history before we decide what happened.”
I sat with Sophie against my shoulder while Caleb brought me a glass of water.
There were six transfers.
Three had occurred during my hospital stay.
Two were made the morning after the twins were born.
And the final one had been processed less than twenty-four hours before I came home.
Together, they totaled $62,400.
Every transfer led to the same destination.
Harborline Renovations LLC.
I had never heard of the company.
“Do you recognize that name?” Owen asked.
I shook my head.
My father leaned over his shoulder.
“Sounds like a contractor.”
“Maybe,” Owen replied. “But we need to find out who owns it.”
Upstairs, a door slammed.
I heard Ethan's footsteps.
Then his voice.
“Why is everyone still here?”
I looked toward the hallway.
“Ethan, where's our savings?”
His expression changed so quickly that I knew the answer before he spoke.
“What savings?”
“The sixty-two thousand dollars you transferred while I was in the hospital.”
Beverly appeared behind him.
“Oh, for heaven's sake. Must every little thing become a courtroom drama?”
I turned toward her.
“Do you know what happened to our money?”
She folded her arms.
“Ethan is entitled to use family funds.”
Owen spoke calmly.
“A joint account raises questions about ownership and authorization. But the transfers still matter, especially if marital funds were moved to conceal or dissipate assets.”
Ethan glared at him.
“Nobody asked for your legal lecture.”
I looked at my husband.
“Where did the money go?”
He hesitated.
“Mom needed some help.”
The words seemed to echo through the kitchen.
“Help with what?”
“Living arrangements.”
I glanced toward Beverly.
“She just moved into our house. Why would she need sixty-two thousand dollars for living arrangements?”
Beverly lifted her chin.
“Because I deserve security in my later years.”
“And our daughters don't?”
Nobody answered.
I thought about the countless evenings I'd spent reviewing our household budget.
The money in that account wasn't simply spare cash.
It represented postponed vacations, carefully planned expenses, bonuses I'd saved instead of spending, and the emergency cushion I'd wanted before our children arrived.
Ethan had contributed too.
It was our joint account.
But we'd agreed that the money would protect our family during emergencies.
Not finance secret arrangements for his mother.
“Did you ask me before moving it?” I said.
Ethan stared at the floor.
“No.”
“Did you plan to tell me?”
“I would've eventually.”
“When?”
He raised his voice.
“When you stopped treating me like a child!”
Emma began crying.
Her small, frightened wail cut through the argument.
I stood immediately.
“That's enough.”
Caleb stepped toward Ethan.
“You hear that? Those are your daughters upstairs. Maybe think about them for five seconds.”
“Stay out of my marriage,” Ethan snapped.
Caleb's jaw tightened, but he stepped back.
I appreciated that more than he knew.
The last thing my babies needed was a physical confrontation in their kitchen.
My father spoke next.
“We're leaving for now. Lauren has appointments to arrange, and she needs rest. This conversation can continue through the appropriate people.”
Ethan laughed bitterly.
“Finally.”
Dad looked him directly in the eyes.
“This isn't over.”
After they left, I sat in the guest room feeding Emma while Sophie slept beside me.
My phone kept vibrating.
Messages from Ethan.
Messages from Beverly.
One from Ethan read:
You embarrassed me in front of your family. We need to discuss your attitude.
Another said:
I still have rights in this marriage.
I didn't respond.
Instead, I forwarded everything to the attorney Owen had recommended.
Her name was Maya Chen.
She practiced family law in Columbus and had agreed to speak with me that afternoon.
When she called, her voice was calm.
“Lauren, before we discuss divorce, I want to know something. Are you and your babies physically safe?”
“Yes,” I said. “Ethan hasn't hurt us physically.”
“Has he threatened to take the children or keep you from leaving?”
“Not directly.”
There was a short pause.
“Then we're going to focus on protecting your financial position, documenting what happened, and establishing a safe routine for the girls.”
I exhaled.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, I felt someone was talking to me instead of ordering me around.
Maya advised me not to empty other joint accounts in retaliation or change the locks while Ethan's right to occupy the marital residence remained unresolved.
She wanted complete financial records.
Bank statements.
Mortgage history.
Property documents.
Messages.
Anything connected to the proposed deed.
“Don't confront him to get a confession,” she said. “You don't need a dramatic argument. You need reliable evidence.”
That afternoon, I opened a separate account for future income and began taking steps to prevent unauthorized access to accounts and credit in my name.
I also arranged for my salary and maternity benefits to be deposited separately.
The money already transferred would have to be addressed through attorneys and, if necessary, the courts.
It wasn't the revenge fantasy Ethan probably imagined.
It was paperwork.
And paperwork, I was beginning to understand, could be more powerful than shouting.
Around four o'clock, my friend Tessa Morales arrived.
Tessa was a registered nurse and the mother of three children. We'd met during a prenatal class, and she had promised to help after the twins were born.
She entered carrying chicken soup, fresh bread, fruit, and enough prepared meals for several days.
When she saw the second refrigerator, she stopped.
“Lauren, why do you have two refrigerators?”
I gave a tired laugh.
“That's a very long story.”
She listened without interrupting.
Then she hugged me carefully, avoiding my incision.
“You know what I hear?” she asked.
“What?”
“A woman who just had major surgery being expected to handle everybody else's problems.”
I lowered my eyes.
“I'm scared, Tessa.”
“Of course you are.”
“What if I can't manage the girls and my career?”
She glanced toward the bassinets.
“Then you get help. That's what people who love you are supposed to offer.”
Her words stayed with me.
Not control.
Not punishment.
Help.
That evening, Beverly complained that the soup smelled too strongly of garlic.
I smiled politely and took my bowl upstairs.
I was finished arguing about food.
At 8:36 p.m., while checking my email, I noticed a message from a company called Hearthstone Title Services.
The subject line made my heart pound.
ACTION REQUIRED: OWNER VERIFICATION FOR PENDING HOME EQUITY TRANSACTION
I opened it.
The message referenced my property address.
It also referenced an application for a home-equity loan.
I scrolled down.
Requested loan amount:
$184,000.
Proposed closing:
Monday, 9:00 a.m.
I stared at the screen.
Ethan hadn't merely moved our savings.
May you like
He was trying to borrow nearly two hundred thousand dollars against my house.
And the closing was scheduled for Monday morning.
