PART 3
My father slowly placed his fork beside his plate.
Patrick continued.
“She doesn’t need it. She can take a taxi. It’s not like she’s supporting the household anyway.”
My face burned.
My aunt Lauren looked down.
My brother Jason clenched his jaw.
But my father remained completely still.
Patrick laughed softly into the phone.
“Mom, you deserve something nice. You spent years driving that old thing. You should have a proper car.”
I stared at him.
Something inside me finally snapped.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
A small piece of me stopped making excuses for him.
Because I suddenly understood something.
Patrick wasn’t embarrassed.
He wasn’t confused.
He didn’t believe he had done something wrong.
He genuinely believed he was entitled to make decisions about my life.
And worse—
he believed everyone else should accept it.
The call ended.
Patrick slipped the phone back into his pocket and returned to his seat.
“What?” he asked when he noticed everyone staring at him.
My father lifted his eyes.
“Nothing.”
Patrick smiled.
“I hope everyone understands. My mother really needed the car.”
My father’s voice remained calm.
“I understand exactly what you said.”
Patrick nodded.
“Good.”
My father took a sip of water.
Then he asked, “Patrick, when did Jenna agree to give her car to your mother?”
Patrick’s smile disappeared for half a second.
“She didn’t have to agree.”
The room became silent.
My father leaned back.
“Interesting.”
Patrick shrugged.
“We’re married.”
That sentence hung over the table.
We’re married.
As though marriage meant ownership.
As though my father had given the car to our marriage instead of giving it to me.
As though my name on the title didn’t matter.
As though three years of my salary disappearing into Patrick’s plans didn’t matter.
As though I didn’t matter.
My father looked at me.
“Jenna.”
I swallowed.
“Yes?”
“Did you give Patrick permission to transfer or sell the vehicle?”
My lips parted.
“No.”
Patrick immediately interrupted.
“Richard, you’re making this bigger than it is.”
My father didn’t even look at him.
“I’m speaking to my daughter.”
Patrick’s jaw tightened.
I lowered my eyes.
“No,” I repeated.
My father nodded once.
“Did you sign anything?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him he could give the car away?”
“No.”
“Did you know he was going to give it to his mother?”
I shook my head.
“I found out this afternoon.”
My father’s eyes hardened.
“How?”
I looked across the table at Patrick.
“He told me.”
Patrick rolled his eyes.
“Oh, come on, Jenna. I told you because I didn’t want you driving it anymore.”
My father finally turned toward him.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Patrick stared at him.
“What?”
“You said you told her. You didn’t answer whether she agreed.”
Patrick leaned back.
“Richard, this is between me and my wife.”
My father smiled faintly.
“No.”
Patrick frowned.
“No?”
“This became my business when you took something I gave my daughter and gave it to someone else without her permission.”
Patrick’s face reddened.
“I thought you’d understand.”
“I do understand.”
My father’s voice remained quiet.
“That’s why I’m asking questions.”
Patrick looked around the table.
Nobody supported him.
Not one person.
He shifted in his chair.
Then he laughed.
“You’re all acting like I stole a bank.”
My father didn’t answer.
Instead, he looked at me again.
“Jenna, I want you to come with me after dinner.”
Patrick immediately objected.
“Why?”
My father looked at him.
“Because I asked my daughter.”
“I’m her husband.”
“And I’m her father.”
Neither man moved.
The tension between them felt almost physical.
Finally, my father stood.
“Excuse me.”
He walked away from the table.
I watched him disappear through the hallway.
Then Jason quietly leaned toward me.
“Go.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Go with Dad.”
There was something in his expression that made my heart beat faster.
“What happened?” I whispered.
Jason glanced toward Patrick.
“Nothing yet.”
“Yet?”
Jason lowered his voice.
“Dad has been making phone calls all evening.”
My stomach dropped.
“What kind of phone calls?”
Jason didn’t answer.
He only said, “You’ll find out.”
I pushed my chair back.
Patrick immediately reached for my wrist.
“Where are you going?”
I looked down at his hand.
For years, that gesture would have frightened me.
Tonight, it didn’t.
I pulled my wrist away.
“My father asked me to come with him.”
Patrick’s expression changed.
“You don’t need to go.”
“I think I do.”
He stared at me.
For the first time that night, uncertainty appeared in his eyes.
I followed my father down the hallway.
He led me into his study and closed the door behind us.
The room smelled like old books, leather, and the coffee he always drank late at night.
He didn’t sit behind his desk.
Instead, he stood by the window.
“Dad?”
He turned.
“How long?”
I frowned.
“How long what?”
“How long has Patrick been controlling your money?”
My throat closed.
I looked away.
“I don’t know.”
“Jenna.”
I heard the disappointment in his voice.
Not anger.
Disappointment.
And somehow that hurt more.
“I don’t know,” I repeated.
My father walked toward the desk and opened a drawer.
He removed a folder.
Then another.
He placed them on the desk.
I stared at them.
“What are those?”
“Things I should have asked you about much earlier.”
He opened the first folder.
Inside were copies of bank statements.
My bank statements.
My hands began to tremble.
“Dad…”
“Look.”
I stepped closer.
There were transactions.
Large ones.
Thousands of dollars.
Some were labeled as household expenses.
Others were transfers.
Some went to accounts I didn’t recognize.
I stared at the dates.
The first one was from nearly two years ago.
I looked up.
“I don’t understand.”
My father pointed at one line.
“Do you recognize this account?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“It’s an account in Patrick’s name.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“An account you don’t have access to.”
I looked at the numbers.
There were deposits.
Large deposits.
Money coming out of my account and appearing there.
I felt dizzy.
“But…”
My father waited.
I swallowed.
“He told me he was moving money into our emergency savings.”
My father’s expression softened.
“Did you ever see the savings account?”
“No.”
“Did you ever receive a statement?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He said the bank was changing systems.”
My father exhaled slowly.
“Jenna.”
I sat down.
My legs suddenly couldn’t hold me.
“How much?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
That silence was enough to frighten me.
“How much, Dad?”
“I’m still verifying the total.”
I looked at him.
“But roughly?”
He hesitated.
“Over eighty thousand dollars.”
My mouth went dry.
“No.”
“Jenna—”
“No.”
I stood abruptly.
“That can’t be right.”
“I wish it wasn’t.”
“He couldn’t have taken that much.”
My father looked at me.
“He didn’t take it all at once.”
I froze.
“What?”
“He took small amounts.”
My father tapped the papers.
“Two thousand here. Four thousand there. Six hundred. Twelve hundred. Three thousand. Sometimes he moved money between accounts so it looked like household spending.”
I stared at the pages.
The pattern suddenly became visible.
The expensive dinners.
The weekend trips.
His mother’s renovations.
The new furniture.
The watch.
The business investments.
All those times he had told me money was tight.
All those times he had told me I needed to be more careful.
All those times he had accused me of spending too much.
My hands covered my mouth.
“He told me we couldn’t afford things.”
My father didn’t respond.
“He told me I was irresponsible.”
Still nothing.
“He told me I needed to stop buying coffee.”
My father closed his eyes briefly.
“And he was buying his mother a car.”
I looked at the folder again.
The room seemed to tilt.
My father’s voice became gentler.
“Jenna, there’s more.”
I looked up.
“What?”
He opened the second folder.
Inside was a copy of a document.
At the top was my name.
My full legal name.
And beneath it—
a signature.
I stared.
I knew immediately that something was wrong.
“That isn’t my signature.”
My father nodded.
“I know.”
I looked at him.
“What is it?”
“A loan application.”
My heart stopped.
“What loan?”
“A business loan.”
I picked up the paper.
